


The Lost Duke

by SelfSameLine (orphan_account)



Category: Anastasia (1997), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Friends to Lovers, Kidlock, M/M, Romance, Slow Build, Smut, at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 51,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/SelfSameLine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We’re looking for him.” John pointed up the stairs to the portrait hanging proudly against the wall. It was blackened and torn in places, but two faces, one of a pretty woman and one of a dark haired boy remained unmarred, staring blankly out into the night.</p><p>The boy’s eyebrows knitted together. “A royal?”</p><p>Lestrade huffed. “The lost duke, yes. Haven’t you heard of him?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Curse

The court swirled and waltzed in sparkling color across the golden dance floor of the palace ballroom. Above the twirling skirts and glittering jewels sat a contented Mycroft Holmes, Grand Duke of Nodol, first born son of Siger the Great. He was an immensely proud young man, fine and cultured like all Nodol royalty should be, dressed immaculately in a white suit at the celebration of the kingdom’s centennial. He observed the festivities with a delighted air; everything had been perfectly arranged. The music was the finest in the land, the food exotic and gloriously prepared, the men and women of court handsomely dressed and shimmering with wealth. Nodol was a jewel of the known world, and the Holmes dynasty ruled it with excellence, intelligence and great power. Of course there was a shadow that strained behind the façade of greatness. Rumors of discontent, of a rebellion stirring in the South plagued his father the Emperor, making him wary and paranoid. Just as soon as he took on confidants, the Emperor seemed to banish them from his sight, determined to remain powerful, but unsure of his ability to rule.

_When I am Emperor,_  Mycroft thought,  _I will never let such a fear overcome my reason. Nodol shall excel still more under the monarchy._

Below he saw his fair mother and striking father begin another waltz, joined by the enthusiastic members of the court. His sister danced with a young prince from France, her eyes glittering with amusement as she giggled at something the prince had said. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sheridan had just been débuted into society, but she already had too many suitors to count. She was young and immensely beautiful, so she liked to spend her time flirting and giggling with the fawning men. When Mycroft would scold, she’d only count him jealous that there so few women at court that favored him, but he would vehemently deny such accusations. Mycroft was not interested in simpleminded women and the endless drabble of courtship. He was to be Emperor one day, a far higher calling than his sister’s inevitable marriage, and one filled with responsibility. Sheridan was only two years younger than Mycroft, but she practically lived in a different world, free from the burdens of ruling a land so dependent on its monarchy and so threatened with upheaval.

“You cretin!” Came a gasp from Mycroft’s left. He quickly turned to see a scandalized servant woman holding up her skirts as a black haired deviant scuttled on his hands and knees in pursuit of some small creature. Mycroft groaned inwardly as he jumped from his throne and quickly followed the troublemaker.

“Sherlock!” He called as the boy jumped to his feet and began sprinting into the corridor. Mycroft looked to see if anyone was around them, and then began to chase after him. The boy dove into the library, reaching out to catch something in his hands and whooping with success. Mycroft barreled into the room and fell forward to avoid trampling his brother.

Sherlock giggled manically when he saw Mycroft land with a huff onto the carpet.

“Oh Lord, Mycroft you should have seen yourself! Like a bear tripping over a log!”

Mycroft shot up and defiantly reasserted his rumpled clothing, all while Sherlock rolled on the floor laughing and cradling his prize to his chest.

“Sherlock, what exactly were you chasing?” Mycroft demanded.

Sherlock’s giggling stopped abruptly as he brought his hands closer to his body. “Nothing.”

“Little brother, it is our kingdom’s centennial celebration, the biggest festivity of the decade, at the heart of the Nodol. What are you thinking, chasing animals through the palace?”

A classic Sherlock pout began to form on his cherub face. “Dancing is  _boring_.”

Mycroft sighed. “I know you feel that way now, but in time you'll come to appreciate the festivities our family gives for the royal court. Sheridan enjoys dancing.”

His nose crinkled. “Sheridan is a shameless flirt.”

Mycroft forced his lips to a stern line. “Yes, well she’s a girl, and that’s what girl’s her age do. Now Sherlock, hand over the poor creature.”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft’s outstretched hand, but realizing escape was slim, surrendered the trembling toad. Mycroft grimaced as the slimy thing squirmed in his hand. Sherlock’s eyes had grown wide with nearly shed tears, and the Duke sighed, knowing he was being manipulated, but feeling somewhat compassionate.

He held out his hand and led Sherlock to the small pond in the gardens just outside the library. Sniffling, Sherlock kissed the head of the toad and said goodbye as Mycroft released it into the water. For a while both of them watched the ripples deform their moonlit reflection on the surface of the pond.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock began quietly, “mother said you're going to Paris tomorrow.”

The Grand Duke looked down at his little brother’s unruly curls, and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Only for a little while.”

Sherlock’s shoulder’s slumped. “And I'll be stuck here.”

Mycroft sighed and led the young boy to a bench nearby. “Is it so terrible here?”

“Yes! All those tutors trying to tell me what I ought to know and mother never letting me deduce things about the courtiers! Sheridan calls me a pest, and Father… well Father barely speaks to me Mycroft. I  _loath_  it here. I don't have any friends!”

Mycroft, always collected and self-controlled, felt his heart quake with his brother’s discontent. There was something there that spoke deep into the disquieting anger he had once felt toward his own life; growing up in the palace was to be groomed to rule, not to live as you choose. He had long ago chosen the responsibility given to him as Grand Duke, but his brother, just eight-years-old, so very bright and lost, had not yet come to terms with it all. He was lonely and sad, but seemed determined to appear brave and impenetrable like his father and brother. Mycroft knew, however, that Sherlock was the most sensitive of the entire family.

“I have a gift for you.”

The boy’s eyes grew wide and curious. “What sort of gift? Is it a sword?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and huffed. “Sherlock, you know that you won’t get a sword until you turn fourteen. Now, open this parcel.”

The pout that was beginning to form at the lack of sword disappeared as Mycroft removed a small package from his pocket. Sherlock scrunched his nose in concentration as he turned it around in his hands.

“It’s a…pocket watch.” He lifted his grey eyes to Mycroft for confirmation.

“Of a sort,” the older brother enigmatically replied.

Sherlock ripped open the paper wrapping and stared at the shiny metal present.

“It’s a magnification glass,” Mycroft explained as he pushed the button at the top of the chained devise. The surface panels popped open and revealed a concave piece of glass that enlarged the pads of his fingers beneath.

“Quite clever isn’t it? It’s to help you explore more properly when I’m away. When I’ve come back, you can share with me what you’ve learned.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and his mouth agape with wonder as he used the glass to observe a stain on his trouser leg. He looked up at Mycroft, beaming with joy.

“Mycroft, you’ve managed to give something rather good!”

The older brother sighed. “Yes, you’re welcome. Look, I’ve engraved it for you on the back. See?”

Sherlock closed it and turned it over to see the engraving.  _For Paris_.

The boy whooped in glee. “Do you mean it Mycroft? You'll take me to Paris with you next time?”

Mycroft couldn’t help the grin upon seeing his little brother’s excitement. “Well, when I’ve come back we can talk to mother and father about it.”

Sherlock leapt up and crowed. Mycroft shook his head and laughed. “Now, chain that to your trousers and keep it in your pocket. We’ll see what happens to you if I return and find it lost or broken.”

The eight-year-old hastily obeyed, grinning and rubbing his hands together. “Before long I will be having adventures in Paris, and I can deduce whomever I want and never have to go to another ball for as long as I live.”

“Sherlock – ” Mycroft began to protest, but suddenly he heard a rustling behind them, and a small servant boy emerged, looking sheepish.

“Sorry, Your Majesty, but Her Grace the Empress is looking for you.”

Mycroft nodded to the blonde servant. “Very well. Come along, Sherlock, mother will want to see you too.”

Sherlock sighed and hung his head. “But  _Mycroft_  – ”

“ _Come along_.” The Grand Duke leveled a steady glance toward his petulant little brother.

“Fine!” he cried, throwing his hands dramatically into the air. “But I _wo_ _n’t_  dance!”

Mycroft tried not to grin as they headed toward the ballroom. Once they reached the corridor, a servant woman in white appeared, looking thoroughly vexed.

“John!” She cried sternly at the blonde boy, “Get back into the kitchen! What are you thinking being outside? Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, he’s lost his head.”

“But  _mum_ ,” whinged the boy, “Mr. Lestrade sent me to look for the Grand Duke!”

Mycroft waved a dismissing hand in the air, “No need to worry, he was not a bother.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty, apologies again, Your Majesty.” The woman murmured bowing. As soon as Mycroft passed by them, she grabbed the boy’s ear.

“Ow!” he whined, clawing at her hand. Before turning the corner, Sherlock glanced back at them curiously.

“Come along Sherlock!” Mycroft droned. He slumped and followed reluctantly into the ballroom.

The music was still swelling among the glittering dancers, but the Emperor and Empress were sitting on their thrones now, watching with austere expressions. Sheridan had also taken her place among them, but was speaking eagerly with other courtly ladies, glancing coquettishly at the Frenchman Mycroft had seen her dancing with earlier. He dragged Sherlock over to his mother.

“Darlings! There you are! Mycroft, I haven’t seen you all evening.”

The duke kissed his mother’s cheek and took his place next to her. “It’s been a successful evening, I believe.”

“Yes, a glorious festivity in honor of a glorious century.” The regal woman glanced down at her youngest son who had taken out his magnification glass to observe a small bug that was creeping under his mother’s throne.

“Sherlock! Good gracious child, get off your hands and knees! Come here and let me look at you.”

The boy petulantly stood and went to his mother. She tsked and rubbed a thumb over a patch of dirt that had somehow made its way to Sherlock’s nose.

“What am I going to do with you, pet? You’re always acting so disrespectfully. And now Mycroft is going away, and you will listen to no one.”

Sherlock wrenched his face away from her and gave the full-fledge pout Mycroft had observed the edges of all evening.

“You don’t have to do anything with me, I’m fine on my own!” He proclaimed, rather loudly. Sheridan and her ladies looked up at the whinging boy and frowned. Mycroft gave him a piercing look.

“Goodness sake, Sherlock, keep your voice down. Mother didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Yes she did! She’s always trying to belittle me!” He stamped his foot.

“Silence!” Came a sudden command from the Emperor. All three of the royals ducked at the sound of his voice. Siger stood up from his throne and gripped the young boy’s wrist. A sour looking man whom the Emperor had just been conversing with, looked disapprovingly on.

“I will not have a son of mine acting so unbecomingly.” He said, directing the boy to the seat beside’s Mycroft’s. “Now do as you’re told and be still.”

Sherlock was trembling now, his hands held in his lap, his head bowed. Mycroft knew he was desperately trying not to cry.

“Yes, sir.” He managed.

Appeased, Siger returned to his throne and began to speak again with his advisor. The Empress sighed. The dance ended with a flourish, sending the breathless participants into uproarious applause. Then the hall silenced as the Emperor rose to his feet and began to address the courtiers. Mycroft sat up straighter, listening intently to his father’s speech, highlighting the honorable history of their land. He glanced over at Sherlock who had slumped in his seat and was toying with his present, clicking it open and close. Mycroft was about to correct him when suddenly a loud crackpervaded the room. He snapped his head toward the back of the hall, where a dark, sickly figure glided forward onto the dance floor.

The shocked courtiers backed away as the dark cloaked man made his way through the crowd toward the Emperor. Mycroft leapt to his feet, taking his sword in hand, instantly recognizing the pale face beneath the hood. It was Moriarty, the traitorous holy man that had been banished from court only a winter ago. With him was a tall, brooding knight in dark metal, sending murderous looks to anyone who so much as took a step toward Moriarty. The traitor swung a black lamp in front of him, swirling white smoke into the air, as though offering incense to God. Mycroft tightened his grip on his sword.

“How dare you come here, sir? You have been banished!” Bellowed the Emperor, flanked now by two guards, raising their swords.

“But I am your confidante, your majesty!” Came the sickening reply from the smirking devil.

“Confidante!” Siger cried out indignantly, “Ha! You have proved a traitor to this land!”

Moriarty scowled and raised his lamp. “You think you can banish  _me_?” He screeched.

The Emperor stepped back, alarmed by the rage that ignited the small man’s face.

“No, no, no,” Moriarty said quietly, “I, banish  _you._  With a curse.”

He whirled around, shrouding himself in smoke. “You and your family will die within a fortnight!”

The crowd gasped and terrified whispers erupted among the courtiers. Mycroft looked to his mother, pale in her throne, a hand to her throat. Sheridan had risen to her feet, visibly shaking with terror, clutching hands with one of her ladies. She sent a worried look to her older brother. He remembered. The night she had come to him, crying about the holy man that they had once trusted, who had appeared in her bedchamber and threatened her life. He remembered her shameful face, her wide eyes, her shaking voice as she had whispered, “he said he would murder us all if I refused him.”

And now, returned was the madman, grinning wickedly at all the trembling courtiers. The guards began to advance on him, but the brooding knight wielded his massive sword, challenging the guards as they attempted to apprehend the traitor. Moriarty cackled with glee.

“It is no use!” He yelled out. “I will not rest until I see the Holmes’ line destroyed!” Suddenly he raised his hand and with a deafening roar, the large chandelier hanging from the middle of the rafters fell to the dance floor, crushing a group of young women and shattering in a blast of glass and fire.

People rushed to the exit doors, screaming hysterically. Mycroft tried to jostle through the hysterical crowd, seeking to defend his father. He pushed past women in tears and men slick with blood, desperation to enact revenge and apprehend the fiend overwhelming his senses. The smoke from the fire began to choke him as he hurtled blindly through the crowd. He arrived at the fire that had erupted around the destroyed chandelier, but only saw the terribly charred bodies of those unlucky enough to be trapped beneath it. He turned and sprinted to the north wall, his eyes beginning to sting from the smoke. There, Mycroft found his father, leaning against a window, his face rumpled in agony as he held a hand to his side. Mycroft saw the blood seeping forth from the wound and froze in shock. Three guards had reached them; they tried to lift the Emperor but the man let out such a wail of pain that they set him down again, beginning to break the window to allow some air not tainted by the suffocating smoke.

The Emperor lifted his eyes to his son and lifted a trembling finger beyond the young duke’s shoulder. Mycroft jerked around, seeing the flicker of a dark cape and a knight’s armor gleaming in the firelight as they disappeared through the gardens. He leapt after them, weaving in and out of the fleeing men and women. He reached the courtyard, but within the jumble of terrified people and confused servants, he couldn’t spot the dark coat again. With a frustrated yell, he clambered down the steps into the garden, racing to find any trace of the murderers, but there was no sign. They had gotten away.

Mycroft leaned his hand against a tree, trying to calm his breathing, frustration and anger pumping in his veins. This Moriarty was as good as a dead man. He felt determination swell in him. Death to the traitor of his father, of Nodol! Suddenly a cry came from behind him – Sheridan calling his name. He emerged from the garden as she ran down the courtyard stairs tears streaming down her face.

“Oh Mycroft! Come quickly! Father is dying.” She choked out.

The young duke followed her around the smoking hell of their ruined ballroom; the windows were cracking under the swell of the heat, and Mycroft could hear roar of the flames. Sheridan led them to the servant’s courtyard steps, where the guards had managed to carry his father. The Emperor was pale and covered in his own blood, slumped against the Empress as she cradled his head with trembling arms. She was weeping bitterly, grief and shock overwhelming her features. The woman wailed when she saw Mycroft approaching, and held out a bloodstained hand to him.

And the young duke observed his elegant mother cry out to him in agony, holding close to her bosom the once Great Emperor of Nodol, brought low by one man’s evil cunning. Mycroft reached out and clasped her hand, numb to his feet, incapable of looking anywhere other his father’s dying, cold eyes. The man gasped for breath, attempting to speak but overcome with pain. Mycroft fell to his knees and bowed his head to his father, feeling his own eyes prick with sorrow.

“Oh father, our Emperor, you cannot leave us,” he begged.

“Mycroft –” Siger managed. He clawed at his sword and attempted to pull it free from his side. Shaking, the young duke reached to help unsheathe the sacred weapon. It shone blue and red; moonlight arrested by firelight – peace tainted in blood. Rubies that decorated the handle glittered up at their new master. Mycroft lifted blurry eyes to the dying Emperor.

“My son –” came the strangled voice. Then silence.

The Empress wailed, wrenching the body up and rocking it in her arms. A guard knelt down, his face full of devastation, and steadied a fainting Sheridan. Mycroft stared at the dead man’s still open eyes, clutching the sword of Siger the Great, Emperor of Nodol, afraid to look away.

Then, a quiet voice beside him. “Father?”

Mycroft tore his eyes away from the dead man to see the black curls that had materialized from the darkness, quivering with confusion and fear.

“Gone,” whispered Mycroft, relieving his grip on the sword to grasp Sherlock’s shoulder.

His mother’s weeping eyes stole up from her dead husband’s body at the sound from Mycroft.

“Long live Emperor Mycroft Holmes,” she whispered.

Sherlock shivered beside him.


	2. The Palace Siege

_I will not rest until I see the Holmes’ line destroyed!_

The madman's words would not leave Mycroft. It had been twelve days since his father's death, and while the others grieved their late Emperor, Mycroft carried on in his duties to the kingdom. The rebellion in the South, mere whispers of discontent a week ago, had erupted into a chaos that consumed nearly half the land. The desperate impoverished man, once quiet in his grumbles, had been taught a new language of revolution. Coerced into a frenzy by zealous idealists, their lives were no longer tolerant. Action bread freedom, they chanted. In the darkness beyond the flickers of their torches was the black knight, a brooding, violent killer, who answered to one man - Moriarty.

_You and your family will die within a fortnight!_

The traitor had called upon some unholy power to curse them. The people worshipped his power, proclaiming him a prophet sent from God to guide them toward freedom. Moriarty spread his lies and black acts, twisting the minds of the citizens of Nodol. In a matter of a few days he had estranged the monarchy from its once loyal people. Mycroft, the new Emperor, watched as his kingdom burned. And all the while, the vision of his father's cold eyes, tortured him, reminding him of his youth, his incompetence.  

_Nothing could have prepared me for this._

A tap at the study door. "Your Majesty, Sir Dimmock to see you."

The head of the royal guard entered swiftly, his eyes dark with lack of sleep and worry. Behind him trailed a young officer, nervously glancing about Mycroft's study. They both bowed in greeting.

"We must evacuate the palace, sir. There is nothing we can do to stop them. By dawn, they will have stormed the grounds."

Mycroft stared sharply at Dimmock. "I will not run from this mythical power Moriarty so claims. They will not breach the castle walls."

"You saw the chandelier fall, Your Majesty."

A burst of fire. Bleeding courtiers. His father's cold eyes. White smoke swirling about a madman's grin.

The young Emperor gripped his sword. "He is mere man. Evil and possessed by his lust for power. We will not yield."

The young guard stepped forward. He was barely a few years older than Mycroft, his chestnut hair falling forward into his eyes as he bowed his head respectfully. "Please Your Majesty, we are highly outnumbered. Too many men were injured at the ball."

Sir Dimmock gave the young man a firm look, and he ducked his head.

"Mr. Lestrade, Your Highness, though inexperienced in battle, is correct. I lost my best men that night. The servants quiver in the hallways; many have already fled! We do not have a hope of maintaining the palace."

Mycroft's lips grew thin as he watched fear and uncertainty burn in the eyes of his royal guard. It was hopeless then. Moriarty had already won.

"Do not lose your courage." The men straightened as their young Emperor approached them. "We must protect those in the palace. I will find a way to evacuate them."

Lestrade stepped forward tentatively. "If it pleases Your Majesty, I have an idea on how we might do so."

\--

 "Mother," Mycroft called into the darkness. A single candle lighted her chamber. Three women huddled around it whispering to one another. Their pale faces snapped up at his summons, the ghoulish light casting shadows into their worried eyes. 

"Is it time?" Came his mother's regal voice.

They stood, two ladies' maids supporting their trembling mistress. In only a matter of weeks, Mycroft's striking mother had become an old woman, her eyes worn with grief, her hair streaked with grey, unstable on her feet. She had hardly left her chambers since the day of the ball, lying in fitful unrest. Besides her two maids and Mycroft, she spoke to no one.

Silently they swept into the hall, moonlight slanting through the floor-length windows and guiding their way. As they grew closer to the carriages, rustling groups of servants and courtiers joined them, faces ashen with fear and strained with determination to escape. Mycroft’s heart, burning for revenge, longing to stand firm, to protect, protested against the oppressive silence; so quiet was the palace, as though death had already overtaken it's corridors.

Suddenly, piercing through the darkness was a single cry of terror. "They are here!"

At once, the hall was full of panic, some choosing to streak toward the carriages, while other's turned to flee in a different direction. Mycroft unsheathed his sword and grasped his mother's arm, leading them toward the carriages. At the end of the hall, a flickering threat of firelight grew bright; the shrieking grew louder. Dimmock came pounding down the corridor, his eyes wide, breathing heavily.

"My Lord, My Lady, the carriages have been overtaken! They entered over the South wall; the guards have been slain."

The Empress' knees gave way, and the ladies reached to catch her. Mycroft felt his heart sink.

"And those attempting to escape?"

Dimmock's eyes quivered in the moonlight. "Burnt with the carriages, Your Majesty."

"Sheridan!" The Empress cried out, tears falling down her face.

Mycroft took a quick breath. "We will have to run to catch the train. Dimmock, direct those who have survived toward the northern exit, toward the tracks. Take my mother."

The guard nodded vigorously, gathering the faint Empress in his arms and turning to sprint down the corridor with her ladies.

"Wait!" Called the fair lady, "Mycroft, you must find Sherlock. His group may not have yet reached the carriages."

The Emperor's instincts to defend his palace warred with his desire to follow his mother's request. He looked in her soft blue eyes, and gave way. Nodding briskly, he raced to the nursery where Sherlock and his nannies had been instructed to hide until it was time to leave. The wing was full of terrified servants, and Mycroft quickly instructed them to head toward the north exit. He inquired after his brother, but none had seen the boy or his nannies since the initial race to the carriages.

His heart grew heavy as he continued to search the rooms, only to find them empty. The corridor had emptied, and the once distant sounds of the mob grew closer with each search. When Mycroft finally determined the task to be hopeless, he began his trek through the palace, ordering lost servants and terrified courtiers toward the northern exits and searching fiercely through the clamor for Sherlock. An explosion of glass erupted from the western hall and Mycroft unsheathed his sword once more, making ready a defense for his fleeing servants. Then, out of an empty chamber bounded the missing little boy, his eyes wide with fear.

"Mycroft!" He cried clutching at his brother's coat. The Emperor ached with relief.

"Sherlock! Where are your nannies? Why are you alone?"

The boy's lips quivered. "I've lost it Mycroft! I can't find it anywhere!"

"What have you lost Sherlock?"

"My magnification glass! I left it here last night when I was exploring!"

"For goodness sakes!" Mycroft took his brother in hand and began to run toward their escape, but Sherlock wrenched free and dove into the next room.

"Sherlock!" The Emperor chased after him.

"I know its here! I can't leave without it!"

Another crash and resulting cheering. They were close. "Sherlock we must leave at once!"

The little boy emerged from beneath a bed, clutching his gift with triumph. "I've got it!"

A smash of pottery just a few doors away. Mycroft slammed and locked the door behind him, his eyes darting for an escape. They were too high off the ground to jump from the windows. Their only hope was if the mob passed by the room. He picked up his shocked little brother and hid him in the shadows next to the fireplace, gesturing for him to be silent. The laughter and cheers echoed eerily just outside the door.

A muffled voice rang out, "Check all the rooms! We've yet to find the Emperor and the little brat."

Sherlock stilled beside him, his grey eyes filled with quiet panic. Mycroft gripped his sword. The door handle rattled.

"Oi! This one's locked!"

_Mycroft, you fool._

"Break it down!"

A scuffle and a slam of feet attempting to break the lock. 

 _Boom._  Mycroft readied his sword.

 _Boom._  Sherlock closed his eyes.

 _Boom._  The door creaked with abuse. 

Suddenly, the wall beside Sherlock burst open and a blonde-haired boy emerged, his eyes full of determination.

"This way!" He whispered gesturing into the darkness beyond the camouflaged door, "Through the servants quarters!"

Quickly Sherlock sprinted after the boy, followed by Mycroft who sealed the wall behind them. Distantly he heard the chamber's door slam open. They ran down the darkened stairs after the servant boy, and emerged into the kitchen. Mycroft saw how it had been ravaged, tables upturned and supplies scattered across the floor. Without another glance, they escaped to the western courtyard. The servant lifted a finger to his lips, pointing to where a small fire was blazing just a little ways away, two dark figures silhouetted against its glow. Edging quietly toward the northern walls, they stuck to the shadows. They reached the far gate, and Mycroft hoisted his brother and the blonde boy over it before climbing after them. As he leapt down the gate groaned loudly, and the two silhouetted figures turned toward the noise.

"After them!" hissed the short man, and Mycroft shivered with recognition.  _Moriarty._

The three escapees ran through the gardens, reaching the bridge that ran over the palace moat. Suddenly, the servant boy fell, and Sherlock stopped to help him back to his feet.

"Alright?" He asked.

The boy winced as his foot made contact with the ground. He let out a frustrated growl, but carried on across the bridge, huffing through his teeth in pain. Mycroft despaired over their impaired speed, and nearly grabbed Sherlock to run and leave the servant. But it was too late – just as they reached the end of the bridge, a glistening knight overtook them.

"You can't run now, Your Majesty," came a sickening voice. Mycroft turned to face his foe, sword aloft. He steered the boys behind him to the edge of the bridge, and brandished his weapon to the traitor and his knight. Moriarty gave a glistening smile.

"Was that your father's sword? How sweet. The little Emperor, so brave, so…stupid."

A crash and Mycroft watched as the western wing of the palace erupted in flames. Moriarty gave an impressed whistle.

"Goodness, angry mobs certainly do have their talents. Get enough people angry and  _boom_!"

Mycroft gritted his teeth.

"Oh, Mycroft Holmes, the icy prince, did you really think you'd escape? My power is far greater than your father could have ever imagined! He failed to ally with me, and he died. As will you, along with the rest of your family."

Sherlock was gripping tight to Mycroft's coat. 

"Ah yes," Moriarty looked round to the little boy's eyes, "you too, little duke. Just like the others who tried to flee through the northern gates. Honestly, Mycroft..." the madman turned his eyes back to the Emperor, "do you think me a fool?"

The knight chuckled darkly. Moriarty sent an appreciative glance back at him. And all at once, Mycroft was flying backwards off of the bridge into the dark waters of the lake. The water was icy cold; his lungs protested as he fought his way to the surface. Sputtering he reached the night air, dragging his sword clumsily through the water and trying to find his brother among the ripples. He just made out two small figures reaching the shore when another splash pulsed next to him. Mycroft raised his shivering arm, and felt a dull clang as the figure who had jumped after him surfaced. 

Moriarty screeched and raised a hand to his gushing face. Terrified, Mycroft paddled to the shore, lugging his weapon. Once he could stand he whirled around to see the drowning madman, sputtering and screeching up at the dark knight above the bridge. The servant was attempting to lose his armor in order to rescue his master. Mycroft turned and sprinted toward the spot he'd seen the servant and Sherlock earlier. When he reached the surrounding trees, he found a shivering Sherlock clutching his gift in his hands.

"Where's the boy?" Mycroft asked, sheathing his sword.

"Gone to look for his mother. She had run north..." The boy's eyes traveled to the burning palace.

"Come on," Mycroft grabbed his brother's arm and directed him down the forest path, "there may be time yet."

They ran through the trees, seeking the western road, trying to move quietly lest there be lurking rebels. With no sign of trouble, they made it to the large dirt road and turned north, remaining in the shadows. Sherlock pointed to the train tracks that flowed in and out of the forest. Mycroft nodded and they followed the tracks to the station, where a huffing locomotive stood among a throng of wild people. Servants attempted to board, and angry rebels held them back. A few called for the royals they were sure were aboard. 

"Give us the Emperor!" they called, hurtling themselves toward the frightened train workers.

"We must be off! Clear the tracks!" called the conductor again and again.

"You cannot help them escape! They are called to justice! You betray your fellow man!" More protestors screeched.

Finally the conductor lurched the train forward, causing many people to scatter from the tracks. One woman wailed as she was pushed from one of the cars. It chugged slowly toward where Mycroft and Sherlock hid among the trees. As it began to pass, Mycroft pulled at Sherlock's wrist and chased after it. On the caboose stood two courtiers, huddling together, wide-eyed. They saw the two figures sprinting after the train, and reached out their hands, urging them forward.

Mycroft began to run faster, but Sherlock was stumbling beside him, his breathe coming fast and shallow.

"Come on, we're nearly there!" He yelled.

With a few bounding steps he overtook the car and grasped the on courtier’s hand. Mycroft squeezed around Sherlock's fingers as he was pulled aboard, but the boy fell from his grasp. He held out his hand as the train continued to speed away.

"Sherlock!" He screamed, willing his brother forward. But Sherlock's eyes had grown wide in fear, his steps unsure, slowing and falling behind. One of the courtiers grasped Mycroft and tried to pull him backward into the car. He struggled forward reaching out again, but the boy tripped and fell. His head of dark curls fell backwards and smacked against the rails. Sherlock lay still. Before the train bent around the corner, Mycroft saw a small glimmering metal object lying just next to his brother's outstretched hand.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft wrenched himself from the courtier’s hands, attempting to leap from the train, but another man grasped his shoulders.

"You must hide in the car, Your Majesty!" Came a gruff voice in his ear, but Mycroft could not respond. He stood frozen staring out into the trees, urging the young duke to appear. Finally he was eased away from the railing and into the car. He was shoved into a seat, given a blanket, questioned relentlessly. But the Emperor said nothing. The blurring dark trees were broken up by the oncoming dawn.

\--

_To His Highness, The True Emperor of Nodol,_

_It is lucky I have managed to get this letter to you, as the rebels are demanding exit visas of anyone attempting to leave the capitol. It seems that only this messenger and I remain loyal to Your Majesty– though some may still be in hiding. The palace has been taken by the rebels, but without their master, seem lost as to proceed with their 'grand freedom’. There has been no sign of Moriarty or the black knight, though reports of Moriarty's death have come to me. Many believe he was drowned in the lake, and his terrible servant, fled._  
 _With great sadness I can report the death of Their Majesties the Empress and Duchess. Both were found slain in the palace alongside their ladies. Of the young duke, there has been no sign. In this hour of turmoil and confusion, I wish you to know that should you call for us, we will answer._  
 _Your humble servant,_  
 _Sir Dimmock._

  
Mycroft let the short correspondence fall to the desk. His head fell to his hands. For just a moment, the young Emperor let himself weep.  


	3. Ten Years Later

Little Leigh Turner gasped as John tightened the bandage around her ankle.

“Don’t worry little one.” He patted her injured foot gently. “It’ll throb for a bit, but then it’ll be right as rain.”

He reached for his cane and gingerly lifted himself from his kneeling position. His leg was troubling him more than usual thanks for the unseasonal snowstorm.

“Oh thank you, Doctor Watson.” Leigh’s mother reached to grip his hand tightly as he turned on one leg to gather his things.

“Just Comrade, Mrs. Turner, I’m not a real doctor.” He smiled at her as he lifted his heavy bag.

“You are to us. No one here can pay for real medicine. You’re our savior.”

John looked into the widow’s shining eyes for a moment and was struck how much she reminded him of his own mother, lost nearly ten years ago now. He nodded sharply and turned toward the door.

“Wait!” The woman grabbed his shoulder to stop him. “I can’t let you go without tea. It’s the least I could do. It’s charging up to be a bitter one out there.”

John looked to see the sheets of snow as they fell heavy just outside the window. He thought of the long walk through the slippery streets on his cane as he had made his rounds in the early morning. Sighing, he nodded and sat on the chair by the fire. The woman beamed and bustled about to make the tea. Leigh picked at the edges of her bandage quietly.

“There’s been quite a lot of talk lately about the royal family,” Mrs. Turner remarked from her tiny stove.

John pressed his fingers together. “Yes, it seems the only topic worth discussing these days.”

“Can’t really blame us, of course. With things being so miserable and poor since the uprising… and all that money. It’s a kind of dream really. A handsome duke out there somewhere living without a clue of what’s awaiting him...”

She had a dreamy look on her face as she placed three cups on the table. John looked into his carefully before sipping. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been offered hard spirits or tree bark in his tea. He sighed with appreciation when Mrs. Turner’s brew proved to be manageable. The older woman smiled knowingly at him.

“But perhaps he does know and doesn’t want any part of his family’s business?” John asked before he took another sip.

“Ah, Comrade Watson, don’t tell me you believe what those conspirators say! A Holmes? A member of the rebellion? Ridiculous.”

“Well he was very young when it happened. He could have been captured.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so. He’s out there somewhere, maybe right here in our city, begging on the streets or working in a factory, desperate to return to his brother, but incapable of doing so. Perhaps he’s in love with a young girl here! A woman who family could not approve?”

Leigh giggled and met John’s eyes. “Mother is a romantic.”

“Indeed!” John laughed and drained the rest of his tea. “I have to be off, I’m afraid. I’ve a colleague waiting for me at the square.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Turner jumped up with a look of regret in her face, “you can’t go though! It’s freezing out. You could stay, a little longer, couldn’t you?”

John watched as the woman tilted her head, and leaned forward to reveal a rather impressive chest. She smiled flirtatiously at him as he hesitated by the door. Leigh had a look of confusion and hopefulness on her face as her eyes flitted between her mother and the doctor.

“Nothing to it, I’m afraid,” he smiled apologetically, “I’ve another appointment.”

Her face fell as he turned out into the freezing snow.

John limped his way through the frozen stones of Mrs. Turner’s street, careful to avoid any sheets of particularly hazardous ice. It was how Leigh had received her fractured ankle, running home from the factory and slipping hard in the dark. John grit his teeth as he thought of that young girl working so late.

He had worked too as a child, but it had been a warm place, full of good smells and bustling servants, happily going about their business. He had cleaned filthy pots and pans and plates, but always by a fire, alongside his friends, his mother, his sister. Never alone, never in the back alleys of a crumbling neighborhood. The revolution had destroyed the only comfort he’d ever known.

John emerged into the brightly lit square. People charged about, clambering onto and off railcars and forcing their way through the crowds to their places of work. A woman in a fur coat bumped into him as he made his way to the north end and glared at him. He held his free hand up in apology and limped through the masses toward the market alley. A man leaned lazily against a pillar there, dragging a pull from a cigarette and watching the morning bustle of Nodol.

“Greg!” John called out to him. He looked up and smirked, stubbing out his cigarette as John worked up the steps to join him.

“Out doctoring again?” He indicated toward John’s bag.

“Well, someone’s got to help them,” he said swinging the ragged thing out. “I didn’t want all this to go to waste.”

“Doctor Murray would be grateful I think, that you still help those poor fellows in the slums.”

John shrugged and led them down the alleyway full of loud vendors and bustling costumers. “They won’t have me for long, I’m afraid. I’ve got the visas. The bloke you told me about brought them round early this morning.”

Lestrade smiled. “Brilliant. And I’ve got news too. They’re lending us the theatre for a few hours this afternoon. Word is going around about our ad too. We’re bound to have a lot of actors to choose from.”

John stopped at a stall and asked to see a fur lined coat draped along the back. The shopkeeper leapt to comply. He held out the sleeve. “It’s real fur! I got it from the palace! It could have belonged to the Emperor!”

Lestrade rolled his eyes and pulled out another cigarette from his coat pocket. John smirked at his companion and pulled out some coins from his bag.

“Who knows? It could be worth a fortune.”

Thanking the shopkeeper, John draped the heavy thing over his good shoulder and continued through the market. Lestrade glanced around a little more purposely as they turned the corner toward the palace walls.

“These rumors about the lost duke have brought a lot of… unwanted attention to the palace lately.”

John glanced at his worried friend. “The place has been crawling with squatters for years. Who cares if we’re there?”

“They’d care if they knew we were hording away a member of the royal family.”

John stopped at the hidden entrance that they used to enter into the palace. “But we aren’t.”

“Well,” Lestrade threw the butt of his cigarette into the snow. “Rumors get around. A lost Holmes, a huge reward, an advertisement for actors who match the description of a long-dead duke… the rebellion may be crumbling, but its servants are just as shrewd as they were ten years ago.”

John pulled away the wooden panel hiding their entrance. Lestrade stooped down and made his way in. The younger man followed and replaced their cover. Lestrade helped John up and took the fur coat as he righted himself again. They made their way up the ancient servant stairs that spiraled upwards into the attic slowly, but with the ease of regular practice.

“It doesn’t matter. By the end of this week, we’re out of here – you, me and the Grand Duke Sherlock.” John took back the coat from his companion and added it to the pile of clothes and boxes he was meant to pack for their trip. Lestrade strode to the window looking out into the blackened courtyard, grayed by melting and fresh snow.

“And what happens if none of them work, John? What then? We can’t live in France on nothing.”

John threw a log onto the fireplace hearth and went about starting a fire. His friend watched him with a lip between his teeth.

“It’s foolproof, Greg. Stop worrying.”

The log took to flame, and John made his way to his worn chair, groaning as he stretched out his stiff leg.  “We’ll go down in history, old man. The biggest con ever accomplished. That fat, old Emperor must be desperate to hand out his gold to anyone who can play the part.”

Lestrade smiled sadly at him. “Who else but us, the last remnants of this God-forsaken palace, to pull it off?”

“Exactly,” the young man sighed. He watched the log disintegrate into smoke and ash.


	4. Glowing Dimness and Ember

A soft grey began to spread across the Hanbury hills as a silent dark figure stole across an old country road. It was muddied with melting snow over hard ice, barely decipherable at all in the fading darkness of early morning, but the figure followed the path with ease, avoiding the more treacherous looking puddles. He approached an ancient fence that circled the old country asylum for children, crumbling and frozen over from years of disrepair. Windows had been badly boarded up in a cheap attempt to keep its occupant warm, but in the despairing grey of early morning light, it appeared a haunted thing, empty of life.

The figure rounded its north corner and stole behind an old, crooked oak where a gap in the rusty fence allowed for something thin and lithe to squeeze through. He paused at the courtyard, watching for any signs of movement at the kitchen window. A light was flickering there, but having determined safety the figure moved on to the northern wall of the bricked building. Gingerly, he made his way to the second story ledge, knowledgeable of the footholds there and passed by the windows unseen.

When he made his way to the ledge, he carefully crept to the farthest window and rapped lightly three times. A white face appeared there, and pushed the window open a crack when he saw its disturber.

“We thought you were coming yesterday.”

The young man shrugged. “I was unavoidably detained. Have you got it?”

The smaller boy rolled his eyes and disappeared for a moment, to return with a small item wrapped in a handkerchief. The darker haired boy unwrapped it quickly to examine the key.

“Brilliant. Tell the boys to look for my signal.” He turned to go but a little hand went to his arm to stop him.

“Bas wait! Are you really going to leave?”

“What do you mean? I haven’t lived here for months.”

“Yes, I know that, but…” A few other faces had gathered around the small window staring at their visitor. “Comrade Anderson mentioned that they’ve found jobs for all the older boys, in Nodol. But he says he’ll blackmail you, if you don’t come back, he’ll make sure that everyone knows you’re nothing but a, a –”

“A freak.” The dark haired boy finished for him, and started to make his way across the ledge. “Don’t worry about me, Billy. I’ve got it other plans. Tell the boys to wait for my signal.”

“I will! Good luck!” A small wave and then the window was shut tight.

 The young man leapt down once he was at a safe distance and rounded the house again, aiming for the back entrance where he knew the safe was kept. Inside the children were rising from bed and dressing quickly for breakfast. He heard the sharp instructions of the older children and the sniveling voice of Comrade Anderson. Quickly he acquired a sturdy rock and peered around the corner to see into the dining room window. Children were filling in sleepily, slumping on their benches until a superior walked by. Billy was one of the few looking sharply about him.

Comrade Anderson entered the room and took his place quickly, calling for quiet so that might say grace. Just as he began, the dark haired boy launched his rock at the side window, spraying a fountain of glass and ice all over the superior’s head and causing a roar of laughter and shrieks to swell up among the orphans. Billy nodded toward one assessing little boy near the wreckage who let out a gigantic wail of pain. Immediately, another boy let out a scream. Three caretakers leapt to their sides, while calling for the kitchen workers to bring warm water and rags. The sputtering Anderson was screeching for something to dry him off with.

Bas took his opportunity and leapt through the kitchen door, sidling past the panicked workers and making his way to the hallway where he knew the Comrade’s office to be. He produced a long nail from his pocket and expertly picked its lock. Quietly as he could, he slid into the office and closed the door behind him. For a moment he assessed the hated office, remembering the long-winded lectures of his former caretaker and disgusted rebukes he’d had to endure.

There behind a heavy desk was the safe that Bas had see so many confiscated treasures stored away in. He quickly pulled out the key the others had managed to nick for him and cracked it open. Inside were countless boyish toys, books and fags, alongside a few items belonging to the superior himself. But the item that was of most value that Bas had long ago lost and vowed to regain was a small dull piece of metal nudged behind a coin purse. He grabbed it eagerly and shoved it in his pocket, then noticed the pile of notes stacked in the corner. Without hesitance, he nicked some of those too, grabbed a few cigarettes, and with a satisfied nod, closed the safe back up.

A sudden noise outside made him jump. He unlatched the back window and leapt through, watching for any observers. Dawn had finally lit the hillside in a muted yellow. He saw Billy standing by the crooked oak blowing warmth into his fingers.

“Got it?” he asked when Bas had reached the tree.

“Yes, of course, I have. Here.” He handed the boy back the key. “I think I saw your slingshot in there.”

Billy gripped it in his hands and watched as the older boy shimmied through the opening of the fence.

“Seems like an awful lot of bother,” he called out, waving an arm toward the still chaotic kitchen, “just for an old pocket watch.”

“Well, it’s all I’ve got. Couldn’t leave without it.” He offered him a crooked smile.

“Goodbye Basil.”

The young man waved and began to jot down to the country road. He made it to the muddied ruts that led to the main road and hurried along, taking in the brisk morning air. Spring was finally beginning to thaw out one of the hardest winters Nodol had ever experienced. The trees that lined the road were dripping, deathly looking things, burdened with snow and icicles. Basil tucked his scarf deeper into this coat against the chill.

He was passing a few old cottages along the road when he heard a cry from one with open windows. Curious, he leaned over the stone hedge that edged around the front garden and glanced in. An older woman was sitting at her table, staring at a pale, spherical object. She was gasping the shallow breaths that accompany panicked sobbing and was clutching a crumbled note in her hand. Basil felt a smirk creep onto his face as he jumped the hedge and went to the window.

“Awfully cold to have these open.” He remarked.

The woman leapt out her seat in surprise, shaking the table and causing the object to tip over. She fumbled to catch it from falling, and then took back her hand with a hiss, as though it burned her.

“Who – who are you?” She was trembling, holding a thin hand up to her mouth. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears.

Basil felt some sort of twinge in his chest, and he attempted a soothing smile. “Don’t worry. I just wanted to tell you – it was the gravedigger. The one with the wooden leg.”

The woman’s eyebrows came together. “What?”

“The skull,” Basil indicated toward the table, “I’ve seen it before. Just down the lane, a couple found it on their mantel with a threatening note.”

She fisted her hand tighter around the paper, and something like suspicious fury descended on her face. “How do you know about all this? What does he want with my Aidan?”

Basil shrugged. “He’s got gambling debts. Atrocious spelling, though. Did you notice?”

The woman stared at the note and looked back up at Basil. “He’s misspelled ‘beloved’.”

“Yes! Exactly. He sees it misspelled on the older tombstones I expect. Plus you can see his footprints out here – one foot and a dragged line from the peg leg. He hasn’t hurt anyone yet. It’s all empty threats for the money.”

The woman came to the window to inspect the footprints Basil was pointing out. He noticed a few finger-size bruises on her neck as she peered over.

“I can’t let him see all this.” She whispered to herself. Basil frowned.

“You should leave him.”

The woman sniffed and shook her head. “What’ll I do? My son’s all I’ve got. Do you really think the threat’s are empty?”

Basil pointed to the object she’d nearly toppled over earlier. “Can I see that?”

She handed him the skull. He ran his fingers over the smooth brow. “It’s real. But he probably dug it up for the theatrics. It’s too old to be a recent victim.”

Her eyes had filled with tears again. She worried a lip between her teeth and looked around her small house. Basil felt the twinge again.

“There’s a woman in Nodol, you know, who helps with situations like yours. You’re reasonably educated, and they help with finding work.”

“How do you know I’m educated?”

Basil shrugged. “You knew he’d misspelled on the note. And I see Chaucer’s on your shelf. Don’t think your brute of a husband reads that. Look, her name is Silva. Tell her Basil sent you and she’ll take care of you and your boy.”

The woman seemed to choke on her tears for a moment as she stared at the strange young man at her window. She took a steadying breath and nodded.

“I don’t know how to… thank you.”

Basil clutched the skull in his hands. “Let me take your friend here? Maybe the gravedigger will leave off for a while.”

The woman nodded quickly. “Thank you, thank you, Basil was it? I’m Martha Hudson.” She offered a small, quivering hand. He touched his lips to it for a moment and then turned back to the road.

He walked for a while, finally coming to a fork in the road. One path led toward more countryside, while the other grew wide in its way to the city. Basil paused and looked over the skull for a bit, running his fingers up along the cheekbones and around the eye sockets.

“Who were you?” He breathed.

The skull stared at him.

“Rather worth the drama there, I’d say. You’ll look fine on my mantle in Paris.” Basil laughed and the skull looked back at him with its ghoulish smile.

“Well, if I ever make it there.” Basil glanced down the road where he could just make out the skyline of Nodol. It was a familiar sight to the boy, the grim city just barely made bright by the morning sun. How often had he walked down this road desperate to escape? Desperate for the noise, for the back alleys, for the puzzles of its secrets.  

It was more a home than the orphanage ever was. That old, crumbling home full of morons. Basil sent a scowl in its direction. Hateful place. He couldn’t have gotten away fast enough. And now that he was eighteen, he was free from it forever. Even if they managed to find him again, they couldn’t make him go back. He was nobody, had nobody. And there was a delicious freedom in that.

Basil straightened himself up and huffed a long white determined breath. Paris. His hand went instinctively into his hand and touched cold metal.

\--

“I’d like a ticket to Brighthaven please.”

A beady eye glanced between the bars. “Papers?”

Basil bit his lip. “Brighthaven, I said. A ticket to the coast.”

“Yes,” came the gruff answer, “and I asked for your papers.”

Basil gritted his teeth. “I’m only going down the coast. I don’t need an exit visa for that.”

An ugly laugh and three gold teeth gleaming in the noonday light. “Sorry son, no papers, no ticket. No one leaves Nodol without a visa.”

“But I –”

“Sorry lad.”

Basil closed his eyes and blew out a slow breath through his nose.

“Fine.”

He backed away from the ticket booth and made his way outside the station. Bloody laws! Always getting in the way. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it quickly. His hands shook from the cold. God, it was so unfair! All this useless waiting to finally be free from the orphanage, and he couldn’t even go anywhere.

“Spare a cig, lad?”

Basil looked down at the man addressing him. Homeless for about ten years. Lost his family in the siege. Probably a veteran of the revolution. Sick. Alcoholic. Basil had never seen him before. He pulled out a cigarette and handed it to the old man, holding out a lit match.

“Much obliged to ye.”

“It’s nothing,” he said absently. There had to be some peddler, some miscreant making false papers for the poor and criminal. All he had to do was find them. One of Wiggins’ old partners probably could point him in the right direction; he just had to find the right man.

“Are ye an actor?”

Basil blinked down at the old man. He pointed at the skull that he had been carrying beneath his arm.

“Poor Yorik, I 'ardly knew thee!” The man showed off his mostly toothless gums. Basil grimaced.

“If it’s papers you’re after, I know jest the place. A man at the old palace is auditioning blokes to be in ‘is comp’ny. They’re after leggy gents as far as I’ve seen. You look the type. And they’re 'anding out visas like mad.”

“Oh?” Basil took a casual pull of his cigarette. “A name?”

“Watson, I believe.”

Basil made a noncommittal sound at the back of his throat and threw the butt of his cigarette to the snow. He crushed it carefully with his heel and then leapt off the wall. He called out a low thank you over his shoulder as he passed.

The old palace. It was on the other side of the city, proud and ruined, throwing a dark shadow across the market square as the sun sank past noon. Basil had only been there once before, and only the courtyard. There had been a fight, some sort of boxing match that had dissolved into a chaotic brawl. He’d been walking with Wiggins and they’d heard the noises. Terrible, big men, angry and bored, had lost their minds. Basil and Wiggins had watched them beat each other senseless in the firelight; their bodies had cast long, swinging shadows across the cold, dead stone of the palace walls.

The front gate was chained shut. Obvious. Would have been too simple that way. But squatters had lived in the palace for years; there must be some sort of easily accessed entry. Most of the windows were boarded up. Even if the fence was penetrable, which it proved to not be, there would be no front entry unless you scaled the impossibly high walls to the second floor. He continued to follow around the huge circumference, scanning for entry, but coming up frustratingly short. How on earth did this Watson expect to be found?

After a half hour of scanning and vainly trying to shimmy through bars, Basil came around to the back of the palace’s walls that faced the marketplace. People were milling about, oblivious to the boy’s frustration. Booth owners were screeching out to the people, trying to pass off their stolen and cheap goods as something valuable.

“You there, young man! I’d bet you’ve never seen a coat so fine!” Basil glanced at the excitable merchant. He held up a faux fur coat, obviously torn at the shoulder and patched up by careless fingers.

“I got it from the palace! It may have belonged to the Emperor!”

Basil’s eyes lit up. “The palace? You’ve been inside?”

The man’s eyebrows knit together. “Of course.”

“How?” Basil stepped closer, using his height and proximity to cow the man into giving information.

“I, uh,” the man took a few steps back, looking Basil up and down. His eyes widened when he saw the skull. Obviously nervous about police activity. Stupid.

“I’m not from the police. Can’t you see? I’m practically wearing rags. I just need to get in so I can talk to a man named Watson. Does that name sound familiar to you?”

The man shook his head. He was smoothing the coat out on his booth. “No, I’ve never heard that name before.”

Lying. Basil puffed out an irritated sigh. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few notes. At the sound of money the man looked back in Basil’s direction.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” He held out the notes.

The merchant’s lips quivered and he all but blurted out, “Oh well, I think you’ll find Watson in the palace, that’s where he is most of the time anyways. You have to take the alleyway, just there. An old servant’s entrance, if I’m not mistaken.”

The man reached for the notes, but Basil held them back for a moment.

“I didn’t ask you a thing.”

The man scowled and wrenched the notes out of Basil’s hand.

“And you didn’t hear it from me.” He grumbled.

With a sharp nod, Basil rushed over to the alleyway that the man had indicated.

\--

It took a few embarrassing moments, but Basil found the back door, covered up in rubbish and rotting wood. He muscled his way past the barrier and crouched through the tunnel carefully. He found himself in a dusty, cramped little room, with a spiral staircase and a hallway that led into what was likely the old kitchen.

Basil glanced at the staircase, noticing the footprints there. Two men, one taller than the other, one has a crutch. He listened, but it was quiet, not so much as a footstep to be heard upstairs. It stood to reason they were elsewhere in the palace. Basil made his way through the low threshold toward the kitchen. It was dreary, dusty place, full of the rubbish of squatters. It was empty of its shining pots and pans and the crystal bowls that had once held the finest food in Nodol. Those had long ago been scavenged away.

Basil moved on toward the end of the hallway where a servant’s door led into a grand dining room. Except for a long, heavy looking table, it was empty, coated in a thick layer of dust that hadn’t been disturbed in years. Something like the shiver past through Basil’s body standing in that silent room. He pulled his coat around him more tightly as he walked through to another corridor.

The sun was fading fast, leaving fiery splotches of light among the deep shadows of the long hallway. He spotted the grand doors at the north end, leading into a garden. Basil hurried down, trying to tamp down a spot of unwarranted panic that had emerged as a lodge in his throat. Through the doors he found himself, not outside, but in a ruined ballroom, scorched black on the far end and in ruins. He paused on the grand staircase that spilled onto the dance floor.

Basil clenched and unclenched his hand, trying to even out his breathing and order his thoughts. The sun’s last attempts at day stretched onto the western wall until it faded away to a purple gray. Basil closed his eyes.

There in the attic of his mind, were organized shelves of all he knew. Every book he’d read, everything Wiggins had taught him about the backstreets of Nodol, the categorized chart of tobacco ash he’d kept since he’d took up smoking. There was of course the locked chest, the one that stood alone, and untouched in the back of his mind. The one that Basil looked over, tried to unhinge, yelled at. The unsolved mystery of where he had come from, sitting resolutely closed and engraved with the two most ambiguous words he’d yet to come across. _For Paris._

He opened his eyes. He didn’t know much about the palace. He must have deleted the story; it was one connected with the orphanage. More than half of his childhood peers had ceaselessly speculated over the events that happened here. Dull. Tiresome. Lonely children were prone to make up stories of parents who had once been members of the empirical court, related to royalty and laden with gold. Basil was bored to death by their lies and longing.

But standing in the twilight of the palace ruins, he felt the whisper of some nostalgia grip at his heart. It was an old feeling, leftover from childhood, and most definitely unwelcome, but unbidden it emerged. Basil walked down the long steps.

“It had been an anniversary celebration, I believe,” Basil placed his skull down on a nearby table. He pointed to an engraved plate high above his head where the numeral C was clearly seen.

“There would have been people of all kinds here in their finery. Diplomats from foreign countries, sneering at each other. There must have been a struggle before. Then the chandelier fell. Predetermined of course.”

Basil approached the remains of what had once been a shimmering copy of its sister that still tilted far above from the vaulted ceiling. Glass crunched beneath his feet as he examined it. Beneath the shaking ropes of crystal were the charred remains of a human foot. He leaned forward with interest.

“It must have caught a few people. Then the flames claimed others.” He lifted his eyes toward the gaping ruins that led to the garden. “The rest fled of course.”

He turned his eyes back to the skull. It grinned. His eyes lit upon a small space of wall just near an open window were blood had stained the plaster and ground.

“Many lives were lost.” And for some inexplicable reason Basil shivered again.

\-- 

“They were all bloody ridiculous!”

John Watson flung his free hand up toward the night sky and let out a white puff of frustration. Lestrade wrapped his coat tighter around his body as an icy wind blew through the square.

“There were bound to be some nutters.”

“But _all_ of them, Greg? I mean that last one wasn’t even from Nodol! He was speaking bloody French!”

Lestrade pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it carefully against another frosty blast. John watched him take a pull and sighed heavily. “Greg, we’ve got to figure out what we’re going to do. The visas expire in a week.”

Something in John’s voice must have been desperate, because Lestrade’s face crumbled in concern. “It’s not like we can’t get others. These things take time. Did you really think it was going to happen right away?”

“Yes!” John shot his hand up again. “Yes I did. I thought that maybe this time, the stars were lined up for me. I thought, maybe, just _maybe_ something would work out for me. But no – it all had to go to _shit_ as usual!”

After they’d rounded the corner to their palace entrance Lestrade stopped to nub out his cigarette and grab John’s shoulders. “Look, it was never going to be easy. It’s a long shot at its best. You have to be patient – John, are you listening to me?”

John was looking past Lestrade to the entrance where the rubbish that usually hid their door had been pushed to the side.

“Shit.” Lestrade ran over and gave John a grim face.

“Citizen police?”

“Or a clever squatter. Dammit we don’t have the revolver.”

John gripped his cane and nodded as Lestrade pushed inside, peering into the dark tunnel. They clambered through as quietly as they could manage. Lestrade led the way up the staircase, his eyes glittering in the filtered moonlight that the tower’s windows allowed. He stopped short just outside their living quarters and glanced back at John. He nodded once, and let out a quick burst of air. Greg volleyed through the door and quickly took in the dark room, but nothing looked amiss.

John switched on a lamp. “No sign. They must be downstairs.”

“Might be a scavenger looking for metals in the kitchen.”

“We would have heard them if they were in there.”

“There’s a good chance they might have left already.”

John pulled out the revolver from its cupboard and checked to see if it was loaded. “Then we’d better go and check.”

Greg sighed but followed John back down the staircase. When they’d reached the bottom, a low bang startled them.

“It came from south of the kitchen I’m sure of it.”

“Great ballroom?”

John nodded.

“Why would anyone want to go in there?”

They trudged through to the kitchen and took the servants stairs into the ballroom. The balcony was colored grey in the moonlight, and barely anything was visible in the ruins of the great room. John stole quietly to the edge of the staircase. Just there, holding a piece of a damaged chandelier, silhouetted and quiet in the ghoulish light filtering from outside, was their invader.

“Oi!”

The burglar whipped around at the sound of Lestrade blundering down the stairs at top speed. He looked around for exits and began to sprint up the main stairs. John whipped out the revolver and leveled it at the fleeing intruder.

“Don’t move!” He called out, “You’d better explain yourself, unless you’d like a bullet in the leg.”

The figure turned at that, assessing John and the weapon. “It’s unlikely you’d hit me from there,” returned a sly baritone.

“Yeah well you haven’t met the best shot in the revolution then mate,” Lestrade yelled back. He jerked his head at John and slowly he made his way down the stairs. He kept the revolver fixed on the silent figure as he stole across the ruined dance floor.

“What are you looking for? The place has been wiped clean from scavengers for years now.”

A derisive snort came from the shadows. “I’m well aware.”

Lestrade reached the bottom of the stairs first, warily assessing where the intruder was standing. When John joined him, he stole a worried glance at his leg.

“It’s fine,” John responded and turned back to the top of the stairs. “What is it you want then? A place to sleep?”

“I’d hardly find that here in this cavernous, open room, would I?”

John gritted his teeth.  “No, you wouldn’t. You can understand our wariness, then.”

A pause then a sharp huff of annoyance issued forth as the intruder step down a few stairs. “I’m looking for Watson.”

Lestrade glanced at John. “Yeah, and who’s asking for him?”

A few more steps downward and the figure moved into a shaft of moonlight. John felt his belly coil up and unconsciously his fingers closed tighter around the gun. Underneath a mess of inky curls was the pale, cold face of a boy, sneering at John’s stance. Something about the shape of his eyes, the pull of his lips reminded John of cold water lapping in his face, of fire blistering his skin and shattering bone. Murray, his cold eyes, blood slick and soaking through his cotton shirt. John froze up.

“I heard he was looking for actors.” From beneath his coat the boy produced something white and smooth. Lestrade grimaced.

“I hope to god that’s not real.”

The boy shrugged and turned his eyes back to John. “So, do you know where I can find him?”

“I-” John had to swallow around something thick in his throat. “I’m Watson.”

The boy looked cheered to have found the object of his search and flitted down the remaining steps toward the two men. He was smiling now, and held out a hand to Lestrade.

“I’d like to audition. For your company.”

John thawed at that and lowered his weapon as Lestrade shook the boy’s hand with narrowed eyes. He cocked his head to the side.

“You’re a little young.” Lestrade smiled at the boy’s defensive snarl.

“I’m twenty.” He lied. Lestrade laughed.

“More like sixteen I’d bargain.” He froze and then a flash of anger took over his face. “You’re one of Wiggins’ disciples aren’t you? Oh god, I recognize you, you’re one of the kids who stole from the citizen fund!”

The boy gritted his teeth this time. “That was a long time ago.”

“Not that long ago.” Lestrade smirked at John. “He’s just a little street urchin, John. He’ll scamper off soon enough.”

With that, the older man turned to walk back to their abode, but John didn’t follow. He was eyeing the boy with interest.

“If you’re not an actor, why are you really here?”

Grey eyes flitted to his firearm and then his face. The boy sighed. “I heard you had travel papers.”

John nodded. “Yeah, we do. But not for actors. We’re looking for him.” He pointed up the stairs to the portrait hanging proudly against the wall. It was blackened and torn in places, but two faces, one of a pretty woman and one of a dark haired boy remained unmarred, staring blankly out into the night.

The boy’s eyebrows knitted together. “A royal?”

Lestrade huffed. “The lost duke, yes. Haven’t you heard of him?”

A sharp glance and a confident rap of the head. John narrowed his eyes. “We’re off to Paris. Tomorrow as a matter of fact.”

Greg cocked an eyebrow. John simply smiled at him. The boy glanced between the two.

“You haven’t found him yet.” John’s face must have looked displeased at how quickly his plan had been seen through, because the kid’s face brightened.

“I’ve got black hair,” He said turning round to glance back at the portrait. “And I’m about the age he’d be now, aren’t I?”

Lestrade shook his head. “No, absolutely not. He’s an idiot kid, John.”

John raised his eyebrows. “He’s got a point. He does look a little like Sherlock.”

“And I’m not an idiot.” The boy’s voice dripped with disdain. “It’s obvious what’s going on here. You two are ex-servants of the palace, veterans of the revolution, poor and injured…” he glanced at John’s leg for a moment. “You knew the royal family, better than most, you imagine. You hear that a surviving relative is looking for this long-lost duke, so you decide to frame a con. Audition actors, train them and truss them up and then present him in Paris to this most likely wealthy aristocrat. The reward money will be too much to refuse won’t it?”

John and Lestrade stared at the glittering eyes of the frightful boy.

“What’s your name?” John asked after a pause.

“Basil.”

“Basil? Like the leaves?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Yes, well. The man who named me was a prolific gardener.”

“Your father liked greenery, ay? And what was his name?”

The kid hesitated for a second and cast his eyes around the ruined ballroom. “Ah, yes well I haven’t got a father actually. I don’t know my last name.”

Lestrade flung out a hand toward Basil. “See? An orphan, John. He’s a thief too. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

“You don’t _have_ to trust me.” Basil clenched his fists. “You just have to tell me what to say. Do you really think you can let me go now that I know your plan?”

John bit his lip. Basil sighed. “Look, I need a way to Paris. You need someone to pose as this duke fellow. I’ll play the part until you gather your reward money and we’ll both get what we wanted.”

“No absolutely not.” Lestrade stared at John, willing him to take his side. The man just stared at Basil. Lestrade let out a frustrated groan and pulled a hand down his face.

“You can’t be serious.”

“He looks exactly like him, Greg.”

“This is a bad idea.”

John glanced at Basil. “We’ll get you to Paris, but you have to hold up your end of the bargain. If you run don’t think we’ll hesitate to find you.”

Basil quirked a triumphant smile at that and held his hand out. “We have a deal.”

Lestrade groaned again as they shook. “Fine. But I swear, you better be good. The Emperor is a shrewd man. It will take some brilliant maneuvering to fool him.”

“Good thing I’m brilliant then.” Basil smiled at him.

John didn’t hold back his chuckle.

\--

Basil followed the two men up the spiral staircase he’d seen earlier. Watson had taken the time to reassure the cover over their entrance before they’d headed up, and when he emerged seemed a little unstable on his feet. Lestrade had frowned and helped his friend up the steps.

His leg wasn’t bothering him before, but it’s obvious he uses a cane most of the time.

_Interesting._

Basil wasn’t particularly interested in staying the night in the attic where the two bachelors appeared to reside, but Watson had insisted. Lestrade too, seemed a little apprehensive about letting him leave; obviously assuming he wouldn’t return. Basil had acquiesced and now found himself in the warm and cluttered abode above the courtyard. He watched Watson limp about for blankets from the edge of the room while Lestrade coaxed out a flame in the fireplace.

Basil felt a little apprehensive about traveling with the ex-guard. He remembered his face vaguely from when Wiggins and the others had been caught trying to steal from one of the citizen police. It was four years ago now, but he remembers a silver haired man with a grim face, looking compassionately on the young thieves, muttering something about “wasteful youth.”

 _How the mighty have fallen._ Basil smirked as he glanced about the poorly kept dwelling.

“Here you are.” John handed him the blankets he’d managed to scrounge up and then flopped into a chair with a huff. He smiled at Basil.

“It’s not much but its kept us warm.” He gave an appreciative glance toward the fire. Basil watched as he massaged his shoulder and leg alternatively. John raised his eyebrows at him after a moment.

“You can sit, you know.”

Basil nodded and took a seat on a small settee by the fireplace. Lestrade watched them both from the window.

“How did you know?” John asked him. “About our plan, I mean. You hadn’t heard about the missing duke before.”

Basil looked into the fire, determining how much to share with his new companions. He flitted his eyes back to John’s curious face. It was a nice face, he supposed. Trustful, open and expressive, it was the kind of face that made women relax and smile. Charming was the word. Young, only a few years older than himself, yet matured by some circumstances that Basil didn’t understand.

_Interesting._

“The same way I know that your limp isn’t a result of actual injury, but traumatic experiences. The same way I know you fought in the revolution, but cared more for the wounded than used that crack shot Lestrade boasts of you. I observed.”

Lestrade walked over to John’s chair and glowered at Basil, but John’s face wasn’t offended. He looked surprised and interested.

“What do you mean? How could you see all that?”

Basil sighed. “You needed help up the stairs, but when you were holding the gun in your hand, you’d forgotten your leg. Something happened to you then under a similarly dangerous situation, an injury, some intense trauma that changed the way you look at the world. When under stress, you don’t notice the limp. But you were injured in the revolution, most likely shot in the shoulder, since you’ve been massaging the stiffness from the cold out of it. So you were young and injured, an ex-servant of the palace, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. You grew an attachment to the doctor who nursed you through the injury, and became his assistant.”

John’s eyes had grown wide, and his mouth hung a little open. “How can you possibly know about Murray?”

Basil smirked. “I saw your medical bag. Official, that. Well worn though, so old and beloved. How could someone with little standing and education have acquired such a thing? Could have stolen it, but you don’t seem the type. Plus you’re upright friend here wouldn’t have abided by it.” Basil looked toward Lestrade for a moment.

“You have training in medicine and you kept your teacher’s old bag. Convenient and sentimental. Of course, now that the battles are over and there’s no place for two veteran soldiers from the losing side, you’ve decided to seek alternative methods of living, most decidedly from the pocket of a sentimental aristocrat.”

John must have realized he was gaping, because he closed his mouth but his eyes were distinctly interested. “That was…”

Basil turned back to the fireplace, expecting the usual retort.

“Amazing.”

He looked back with a puzzled expression. “Really?”

“Of course it was. Amazing. Quite astounding.”

John’s smile was sort of appealing in the firelight. Basil returned it tentatively.

“Yes marvelous,” Lestrade called from where he’d returned to the window, "just don't turn it on me."

Basil’s smile grew a little larger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me for Basil - I literally went through every Sherlock associated name and this is the only one that worked for me. Just make up another name in your head if you hate it.  
> Also - it made more sense to me that Sherlock would be in on the con since he's a sharp cookie. And I couldn't really see him walking around with a scruffy lil pup so...


	5. Unfulfilled

The city of Nodol, once a glittering capitol of prosperity and gentle rule, had always had its secrets. As so often the case in a thriving nation, bitterness reigned in the hearts of the outcast. Darkness will always exist on the fringe of light.

On the night of the siege, when an incensed crowd of common people rose up against their once beloved monarchy, Sebastian Moran had felt invincible. His master’s plan had succeeded. The Holmes line was cut off, and chaos had overtaken Nodol. He remembered watching flames lick up the side of the palace, his hand tight about his heavy sword, feeling the pride of well executed plans wash over him. His master had looked so pleased in the waning moonlight.

That moment forever haunted the black knight. The look of pleasure, the intense, victorious exclamations of glee that had escaped his master’s mouth. The monarchy was finally subdued. His master would rise and rule the people of Nodol. Moran would be his right hand, cold with death. It was finally done.

And then a flicker of reflected light; three boys racing off into the darkness. His master’s urgent commands to subdue them. The bridge and Mycroft Holmes holding up his father’s sword in defiance. Then the freezing water of the pond as he tried to rescue his sputtering master. Darkness on a moonlit shore. Not a sign of anyone having survived.

With it’s emperor dead, and it’s conqueror long gone, Nodol had crumbled. Sebastian watched from the safety of the shadows as rebellion begot civil war. He fought a little, if only to seek out signs of his master’s few surviving cohorts. But fear of repercussion had hidden away those alliances. As far as Sebastian could tell, he was the last surviving vein of James Moriarty’s once prevalent web.

War dissolved into the hard winters of Nodol’s darkest hour. Wickedness and crime prevailed among its streets. The poor stole from the poor. The rich hid away in their cold towers, cowering from the inevitable toppling of their worlds. Moran survived the only way he had ever learned. He stole and fought and killed. He ruled from the shadows. And he remembered his master’s demise.

The rumors of a lost duke, a remaining member of the Holmes family, had made him laugh. How fickle the minds of the destitute; one day they fight for their freedom from a monarch, and the next they seek to have him restored. Or perhaps the idea of some secret wealth, some remaining faucet of the nobility that’d once defined their land, was what caused the chatter. It did nothing but the knight of his master’s unfulfilled curse.

One evening as he drank something hard and bitter inside a warm old pub, Moran caught the end of a conversation down the bar. Two old fishermenmen were sitting there, ragged from cold and hunger, but finding some solace in each other’s company and the ale.

“They’ve found ‘im alright. I gave Watson the papers m’self.”

“But if the grand duke’s alive, where’s ‘e been all this time?”

“No idea. Not my business I expect. But one thing's for sure, ‘is brother’s gonna pay out the nose for whoever gets ‘im to Paris.”

“Lucky bastard,” the other quipped as he downed the rest of his glass.

Moran squinted at them. It was the sort of talk he’d heard for years now, but nothing so assured. He stood and wrapped his coat about himself.

“Watson, you say?” He called down to the old fishermen. They both looked at him warily.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?”

“Oh nothing, but it can’t be true. It’s all wive's tales. Neither of the Emperor’s sons survived the night of the siege. This _Watson_ must be quite the liar.”

The one closest to Moran squinted and ran his bony fingers down the bar. “I don’ know where your getting your facts, lad, but the Emperor Mycroft’s been living in Paris for years. Everyone knows that. And ‘is brothers just been picked up. And if _Dr._ Watson’s a liar than I’m a beauty.”

“'E’s a good man,” added the other.

Moran felt his fists tighten in anger but he schooled his face into something impassive. “Well, perhaps he could shed some light on a few things for me then. Good day gentlemen.”

He slid out into the night, trying to contain his incredulous anger at what he’d been told. It was obvious that the average stupidity of the people in this city had reached an all time high. Moran had been there that night! He’d seen the Emperor’s sons sink beneath the icy waters of the lake. People were stupid enough to believe anything.

After a few minutes he realized that he was being followed. Two men in long coats were watching him closely, hands in their pockets. Knives or possibly rifles. Moran streaked across the street and into a back alley trying to dodge them. They followed quickly and unerringly. He jumped a fence and ran around the corner. He heard some muffled curses as they tried to follow. Smirking, he managed to get nearly five blocks behind him before he was blindsided from an alleyway near his flat. Someone heavy had tackled him to the ground. He struggled and managed to get back up before his head was hit with a blunt object and everything went dark.

\--

His hands were tied. That was the first thing he noticed as he came to. Gingerly Moran opened his eyes, squinting through the pain and the swinging light that was pointed at his head. As his eyes adjusted he realized he was in a small flat, empty except for a bed and desk littered with papers. To his right stood one of the long-coated men he’d seen chasing him. A clatter from the kitchen made him strain around to look behind him.

A small man appeared, holding a mug of steaming liquid. He walked around Moran and sat on the bed, holding eye contact with the astonished knight. Slowly a sickly smile grew across his pale face.

“Hello Sebastian.”

Moran tugged on his ties and lunged forward in his chair. His face twisted up in distress as he drank in the sight of the ghost peering at him over the rim of his cup.

“Master?” He gasped out finally, tears unbidden and strange bursting into his eyesight.

Moriarty chuckled and took another sip of tea. He eyed his old servant speculatively.

“You look poorly, Moran. What’ve they done to you?”

The knight continued to stare bug-eyed and bewildered. Moriarty sighed and snapped at the guard. The man crossed the room and untied Sebastian quickly. The knight stood up when freed and stared at his master unsure. Finally he sank to his knees and took one of Moriarty’s hands in his two shaking ones.

“Master, I’ve – I couldn’t have hoped. You alive? It’s –” his eyes looked up helplessly.

Moriarty patted the man’s head once and then let out a strangled cough. The guard was at the bed instantly, taking the tea out of his hand and handing him a handkerchief. After a few shaking coughs, he leaned back onto the pillows and leveled his eyes to Moran’s bewildered face.

“I’m sick, Sebastian. Have been for a while. And I’m going to die.”

Moran let out a strangled “no” and gripped the bedspread. Moriarty rolled his eyes.

“Really, you’d think I was a dying gran. Get up you stupid man.”

Moran slowly rose to his feet, and then took the chair. He gathered his wits for a moment and then nodded at Moriarty. The man’s eyes had traveled to the window.

“Do you see how they’ve ruined our capitol, Sebastian? Those idiots and their attempts at order. How ordinary, how trite. I’m sick of it.” His eyes returned to his old servant’s face.

“The curse is unfulfilled. The people know that the Emperor’s son escaped. I cannot gain control until they see the depth of my power.”

Moran’s lips thinned. “I’ve heard he’s been found. By a man called Watson.”

His master’s brow crinkled. “Don’t be an idiot, Moran, he’s in Paris.”

He shook his head. “No, the littler one. Sherlock Holmes. They’re rumors, but I’ve just heard of someone taking him to Paris.”

Moriarty was up on his feet instantly, his eyes blown huge and dark in the dim light. “Say that again!”

Moran stood straighter, feeling the reassuring ease of subjection course through him. “Sherlock Holmes is alive. And they mean to restore him to his brother.”

His master’s stare was hard and long. After a few moments, his lips curled and he snapped his fingers. Two guards appeared beside Moran, awaiting orders.

“This might be easier than I thought.”

Black eyes glittered and a bloody handkerchief fluttered to the floor.

Moran straightened his back a little more. 


	6. I Hate Trains

Thick black smoke billowed from the train as it flitted by the white snow banks surrounding Nodol. John hefted the few bags they'd packed onto the racks above their seats. Basil was sitting by the window, silently contemplating the trees whirring past. Lestrade settled onto his seat and pulled out their papers, studying them for the fifth time since they’d bought tickets.

“They’re fine.” John shook his head as he eased himself onto the seat next to Basil. The young man glanced at him and then returned his eyes to the passing scenery, his hand jingling something metal in his pocket.

“I know, I know. But something’s not right, John, I can feel it.”

“You’ve been saying that all morning. Look, we’re on the train, yeah? In a couple hours we’ll be in Brighthaven, and then on a boat to Paris. We’re going to be fine.”

“I do so hope you can trust the idiotic crooks who pawned those off to you,” came a bored baritone.

John glanced over at Basil and sighed. He’d been moody all morning; it seemed he hadn’t slept at all and he’d chosen to brood all the way to the train station. John thought maybe he had changed his mind about the deal, but when he asked, the kid let out a spew of verbal abuse about the _stupidity_ of their _so-called con_ and the _simple-minded assumptions_ they’d made about him, and asked if John and Lestrade could please keep their _idiotic questions to themselves please?_ Lestrade had grimaced and given John a look that translated to _this was your idea._ John decided to let Basil sulk in peace then, but now the tantrum was starting to get on his nerves.

 “We’ll be _fine._ And sit up, will you? Stop fiddling with whatever’s in your pocket; you’re supposed to be royalty, remember?”

Basil narrowed his eyes. “Oh, and I supposed because you grew up a kitchen boy in the palace you know about that, do you? What else are you going to teach me John? How to scrub a pot? Which scraps to feed to the pigs and which to keep for supper?”

“How did you know I was a –”

Basil let a haughty smirk take over his face. John clenched his fist.

“Look, I’m only trying to help. We can’t just show up unprepared. Greg and I have done our research.”

Basil scoffed and stretched his legs out onto the opposite seat where Lestrade was glaring at him. “Maybe the first thing you could do is stop bossing me around. I am the Grand Duke Sherlock after all.”

With that he sank lower in his seat, turned up his coat collar and rested his head against the window. John rolled his eyes and looked toward Lestrade but the other man was smiling a bit as he studied the papers again. After a moment of silence, he stood, cracking his back.

“Toilets,” he said and left.

John and Basil sat in silence for a while; it had begun to rain outside and the drops made their slow, slanted way across the window. John glanced at Basil’s moody stance; with his coat collar up he could only make out a crop of black hair and the crest of one cheekbone slanted toward dark twitching eyelashes. His arm was still tucked in his coat pocket, clenched in a fist. John sighed again.

“Look, Basil, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

The young man made no indication he had heard him, but John saw the tendons in his wrist shift.

“I’m just serious about all this, and yeah okay, maybe it’s not the most brilliant plan, but it’s all we’ve got right now.”

Basil turned his head and gave John the same once-over look he’d first given him in the palace, cold, calculating and strangely intimate. It made his stomach clench. Something about silver eyes, too serious, too wise… something about them meant danger and thrill and running out of breathe in the moonlight. He swallowed thickly.

“It’s curious.”

“What’s curious?” John breathed out, a little startled by his halting voice.

“An ex-servant of the palace, one who likely lost his family in its destruction, and you feel loyal to its past occupants. You saw men die trying to protect the Emperor as he hid away in France, letting Nodol burn and suffer. Did he ever send aid? Did he ever seek to regain what was lost?”

John glared at Basil, trying his best not to punch the smug git in the face. “I’m hardly a loyal citizen of His Majesty. The whole point of this endeavor is to get one over on him – take the money and run. If I cared a wit for that bastard, I’d stop a con-man like me.”

The side of Basil’s lips lifted a bit; John clenched his jaw.

“Everything I had was destroyed that night.” He turned his eyes away from those haughty, knowing silver orbs and willed his heart to slow. “There was nothing to do but fight. And then try to pull the pieces back together when it all went to shit.”

Silence fell upon them again. John fiddled with his cane, and tried not to think about blood and Murray’s blackened face. Rain spattered rhythmically on the glass.

After a while, John opened his mouth to comment on how long Lestrade had been missing, but Basil let out a loud put-upon sigh.

“Apology accepted,” he drawled, lulling his head to the side and peering up through his black fringe into John’s astounded face.

“What? I didn’t apologize for anything,” John sputtered.

“You felt guilty about nagging me before. It’s fine; no need to. I’ve quite moved on.”

John threw his hands into the air. “Oh, _brilliant!_ Glad that’s settled. So sorry to have offended your feelings, _Your Majesty._ ”

Basil sniffed, “Well, this is quite the reversal.”

“God! You’re impossible! You know what would be a reversal? You shutting the hell up!”

The younger man stared at John incredulously and then tugged his coat tighter about him. John let out a puff of air out his nose.

“You’ll miss it.”

“What? Your talking?” John bit back.

“No!” Basil’s eyes were fixed out the window again. He gestured vaguely toward the rain and the white and grey streaks of scenery. “Nodol.”

John’s eyebrows came together for a moment. He pinched his lips into a thin line and gripped his cane. “No. I really won’t.”

Basil turned back to him. “Yes you will. You’re sentimental. Nodol is your home.”

John lifted an eyebrow. “Sure, I’ve been there my whole life. But it’s a bloody rotten city. I hope I never have to go back.”

Basil contemplated this for a moment. “No. It’s _interesting._ Lots of people, lots of secrets and violent crimes. There’s always something going on. Better rotten than boring.”

John shook his head. “I’d much rather be bored than starving.”

“Bah, hunger. Hunger’s dull.”

“It’s not so dull when there’s children dropping off because their mothers can’t feed them.”

Basil smiled a little and cocked his head to the side. “See? You _do_ care.”

John shot up at that, eyes snapping in anger, leg perfectly steady. “Oh and you don’t care about _anything_ but your fucking self, is that it? You’re just the poor bloody orphan that can’t be arsed to love anyone!”

Right then is when Lestrade returned to the box, holding a thermos and some mugs and looking alarmed at the outburst. John gave him one look and threw both hands in the air.

“He started it!” He turned to glare at Basil. “I’m leaving, I need – I just need some…”

Basil leapt up. “Don’t bother,” he spit out, pushing past them both. Lestrade stuck his head out the door and watched him march down the hallway and disappear into the next car.

“John…”

“Don’t start, Greg, seriously. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Lestrade sighed and sat down again. He poured tea into one of the cups and held it out to John who stared at it for a few moments. He sighed and ran a hand down his face.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m… I mean he’s just a kid. I shouldn’t have…shit.”

“Look, John,” Lestrade peered up at him cautiously, “He’s just a kid, but… so are you? I mean, Christ –  don’t give me that look. But he’s getting to you for some reason.”

John swallowed. “He reminds me of… and I don’t even know why. But he’s…”

“Difficult? Brilliant? Stubborn? Handsome?”

John’s eyes swiveled to his friend's. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Lestrade smirked and held up two hands defensively. “It was just a question.”

“Well, it was… ridiculous! I mean, _that_ skinny little brat? Ridiculous.”

“Yeah I’m getting that.”

John sighed and put down his mug. He turned to leave and after a pause turned and grabbed his cane. “Need some air,” he called back and headed in the opposite direction of where Basil had stormed off.

\--

When Basil had returned to their box a half hour later, it was empty. He settled down on his back and stretched his legs down the length of the bench. Up above him on the racks was the small bag John insisted he take and store a few his few possessions and a change of clothes in. The attic they had been dwelling in was full of odds and ends they’d scrounged from the palace, including out-dated trousers and moth eaten shirts. But Basil was a little thankful for the additional items; the only things he owned were on his back and in his pockets. Lestrade had also pointed out that it would be nice to have the skull stored away and not staring at him all the time. John’s smile at that had been dazzling.

Basil sighed and snaked his fingers into his pocket to touch the watch. This was a mistake. He should have never gotten on this train with these idiotic men. Last night, in his desperation, in the chilling, damp air of that ruined ballroom, all he could think about what getting out. Getting to Paris, finally getting some answers to the damnable enigma of his past. It would be simple enough to give Lestrade and John the slip. He’d spent the whole night lying by the dying fire and planning out what he’d do once they reached Paris.

But then in the morning, John had been so…cheerful. He’d offered him anything he wanted from their attic, made him tea, and forced him to eat the last of their bread. Then after he’d toddled about and got them fed up and packed, the man had sat down and pulled out his gun. Basil had munched on his breakfast and watched as John lovingly cleaned and oiled the revolver, taking care with each piece. Then – and Basil had nearly choked on his tea at this – the man packed it away in his medical bag.

The bag, John’s sentimental nod to the man who’d taught him medicine, the bag that carried the instruments for healing, soothing, and restoring, this is the place that John Watson kept his revolver. What a horrid contradiction, what a perfect anomaly. Basil recognized the symbolism – this man was a healer, but he had the past of a killer. And much to his chagrin he realized: John Watson was decidedly _interesting._

It wouldn’t do. His plan was in ruins. He simply couldn’t bugger off when they got to Paris, not when John was proving such a good little puzzle. But how could he go through with the agreement? What if the Emperor thought Basil to be this long-lost duke? He couldn’t deny the reward money to John and Lestrade, but then he’d be stuck playing royalty.

It was tragic, really. The only possible solution was to show up in Paris and prove not to be what the Emperor was looking for. It was easy; Basil wasn’t exactly royal material. Once the aristocrats had shown them the door, Basil would simply have to follow John about Paris until he figured the man out. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was the only tolerable one.

Of course, he knew John and Lestrade expected him to act the part. Learn which spoon to use at dinner and the proper way to speak around royalty. How dull. How ridiculous. They’d be in Paris in a couple days for god’s sake. It was an entire mess.

The train swayed lazily along the tracks, and Basil closed his eyes. He remembered the first time he’d been on a train. He’d been ten and had just started following Wiggins about the city. It was easy to slip by when you were small, and even easier to pinch wallets and watches off of unsuspecting riders when the lull of the train had eased them to sleep. Basil thought of Wiggins’ pure exhilaration of a job well done plastered on his mischievous face when they’d jumped off right before the stop at Bishop’s Harlow.

“Gorgeous job Basil boy!” He’d crowed to the clouded sky. Basil had smiled then, thrumming with pride and the thrill of it all. He remembered the long walk back to Nodol, soaked through with rain and feeling like a king.

Counting coins in the firelight of their little den, learning to fight off boys twice their side, knowing which coppers were easy to bribe and which would club you on the head… lessons he’d gained each time he’d escape between the broken fence of that damn orphanage and dart about the shadows of Nodol.

Nodol, the city of dark corners and secrets, flitting away from view as their train left streaks of black smoke across the grey sky.

\-- 

“John!”

He swiveled to see Lestrade, holding up their papers and looking manic. He limped over as quickly as he could. 

“What is it? What’s happened? Is Basil – ”

“It’s the papers!” Lestrade whispered, looking around them carefully for listening ears.

“What about them?”

“They’re printed with the wrong year!”

“What?”

Lestrade pointed to the date. “I just noticed it. I _knew_ there was something the matter. The man who sold us the tickets probably hadn’t looked.”

They quieted as a couple passed them, heading to their seats. John grabbed Lestrade’s arm and propelled him back to their car.

“Will they check when they come for the tickets?”

“They won’t let us off the train, John. They’ll send us right back to Nodol.”

“Shit.”

When they got to their carriage, a man was at the end of it, opening the sliding doors and asking to see tickets. John nodded toward Lestrade, and the ex-guard made his way down the hall, intent on stalling the train worker. John hurried into their compartment, and started pulling down their bags.

Basil was asleep, his hands folded together across his chest and his lips parted. John’s breath caught in his throat for a moment. He looked so vulnerable with no collar hiding his face, no sharp eyes dissecting everything around him, no sneer twisting his face. Basil’s face was impossibly young in the grey light that spilled in from the train window. A bang from a door down the hall and John snapped out of his reverie. He pushed on Basil’s shoulder to wake him.

The young man’s hand shot up and gripped John’s arm, wrenching the man forward almost on top of him.

“Jesus!” John yelped, wrenching his arm back. “I was just trying to wake you up. We have to go.”

Basil sat up, watching John collect their things. “Where are we going? We can’t be there yet.”

John glanced at him and sighed. “No, we’ve got to move carriages.”

Basil’s eyes narrowed, but he stood and grabbed the remaining bags. Lestrade burst in to the room then, wrenched his bag from John and led them quickly down the hall toward the front of the train. Basil huffed beside John.

“There wouldn’t be a problem with our papers, now would there, gentlemen?”

A couple stared at the three fleeing individuals as they hurried into the next car. Lestrade grunted and started to walk faster. John glared at Basil but pushed on, hobbling fast as he could on his cane. They reached the baggage car near the front of the train and Lestrade slammed the door behind them.

“Here…that’s better.”

“Yeah,” John lowered his bag and nodded sharply, “it’ll do.”

Basil stared at them. “What the _hell_?”

“What?” Lestrade laughed and lowered himself onto a trunk. “Never stowed away before?”

Basil glared at the former guardsman clicked his teeth together. John joined Lestrade on the trunk with a grunt.

“You’ve _got_ to be joking! You promised me a safe trip to Paris!”

John frowned. “We’re on our way aren’t we?”

“In the baggage car!”

“It’s not so bad.”

“For god’s sake! You couldn’t even successfully buy fake papers! What sort of imbeciles am I traveling with?”

“Alright!” Lestrade held up a placating hand. “Listen, it’s not the best situation, but we’ll have to make do. We’re almost to Brighthaven, once we got off the train, we’ll figure something out.”

Basil opened his mouth to give a scathing retort when a screeching ripped through the air and the car lurched forward, throwing the three men onto the floor. John blew out a heavy breath onto Basil’s face. He squirmed and pushed the other man off of him.

“What was that?” Lestrade was already on his feet, moving to the back of the carriage. He slid open the door and gaped. A blaze of fire was visible down the track as they sped away.

“We’ve been detached!”

Suddenly a great flash followed by a tremendous boom and the rest of the train, still rolling toward them erupted in another explosion. Their piece of the train whipped around a corner and they were thrown to the floor again. Basil gripped John to him, shock freezing him in place.

“What on earth is happening?” Lestrade whipped around, staring at John for answers.

“The train’s been attacked, we have to get off.”

“How?”

“We jump!”

“Jump!?”

Basil was at the front of the carriage, pushing a heavy trunk out of the way of the door. John watched as he open the door to the engine. Fire instantly assaulted him, licking away the oxygen and eating at the edges of the carriage.

“Basil!” John cried out as he leapt toward the front. He ripped Basil away and shielded him with his body as another burst of fire leveled them to the floor. Lestrade was instantly at their side, pulling them to safety.

“We’ll die if we jump!” Lestrade screeched over the howling of the wind and crackling fire.

“We’ll die if we don’t!” Basil yelled back.

John looked toward him and nodded. Lestrade let out a frustrated growl, but gathered his bag and pushed his body to the edge of the car.

“If I die from this, I’m going to kill you, John!” He yelled, and leapt off the train.

Basil made his way to follow, but paused when John wrapped his fingers around his.

“Together!” He cried, and made a tremendous leap to the left. John felt the wind and rain whip him hard across the face as he jumped. It was terrifyingly silent for a few seconds; the only thing he could feel was the cold and Basil’s fingers clamped painfully tight against his. Then he slammed into a bank of hard ice. His breath stopped and his heart shook frantically, trying to acclimate. Basil’s hand had slipped from his.

He surged up from the snow and watched the after glow of their train burning down the rest of the track. Next to him damp curls were quivering over a pouting face. Basil was glaring at John, but seemed unharmed otherwise, and for a moment, in the soft rain and muddy snow, John nearly burst from hysteria. Something in his face must have given him away, because a strangled giggle escaped Basil’s mouth and suddenly they were howling with laughter, clutching each other’s shoulders and shivering in their frozen cushion.

“Oh yeah, this is hysterical! Almost dying and now freezing our arses off miles from home. Hardy har har!”

John looked up through his tears at a sopping Lestrade, gripping his bag fiercely and looking likely to murder. It only made him laugh harder, leaning backwards into the snow. Basil chuckled alongside him, watching John with mirth-filled eyes.

Lestrade just sighed and looked down the track glumly. “What the hell happened back there?”

Basil sniffed and stood, trying to sweep the clinging snow from his coat and trousers. “Someone wanted to destroy whoever was on that train.”

John glanced at the indent Basil had left in the snow. There was something metal lying there. He reached for it.

“This yours?” He held it out to the young man as he stood.

Basil’s eyes grew wide for a moment, and he grabbed for it frantically, shoving it in his pocket. John opened his mouth to ask about it, but Lestrade interrupted him.

“We could probably just follow the tracks. It can’t be far until the next town.”

“Then what do we do?” Basil’s irritated tone had returned. “We don’t have accurate travel papers, so we can’t get on another train.”

Lestrade looked toward John. The man shrugged and looked down the tracks.

“So we walk. Find a bus. Lestrade saved our money at least.”

All three men looked at the remaining bag.

“Can you walk that far?” Lestrade’s eyebrows came together as he glanced at John’s leg.

The younger man shook out his leg and raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

“Yeah, I mean… it’s fine.” He glanced at Basil, who suddenly had a smug look on his face. But it fled away as horror took its place. He let out a sound of protest.

“My skull!” He cried.

It was John and Lestrade’s turn to burst into laughter.

“Thank God.” Lestrade swung the carpetbag over his shoulder and started to march along the tracks. 

\--

“Destroyed? Are you sure?”

Even over the phone Moran could pick out Moriarty's labored breathing.

“I saw it blow up myself. It’s done, master.”

There was a pause.

“It had better be. Or else I’ll skin you.”

A faint click followed. Moran leaned his forehead against the window of the phone booth and shuddered. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I should note that I've set the story in the twenties, based loosely off the birth of the actual Grand Duchess Anastasia in 1901. This is a technology and fashion reference, not necessarily historical, since Nodol is a Soviet/British hybrid and WWI is only briefly mentioned as part of John, Lestrade & Basil's world, since the revolution that occurred after the destruction of the monarchy was a more prominent part of their upbringing and political stances.


	7. And I Recall His Yellow Cat

“Where were you born?”

Basil groaned and stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. “Can’t we take a break? We’ve been at it for hours. Tell me, are we going to _walk_ to Paris?”

John frowned and kicked at a pebble that had dislodged from the mud. It was nearly dark and they’d yet to come across a village with options for transport. Thankfully the rain had been gone within the first few miles of walking, but the mud where the snowdrifts had melted was deep along the train rails. They’d managed to find a road that ran along the tracks, but not so much as a horse drawn carriage had made its way past them.

John and Lestrade had cheerily suggested they coach Basil on the imperial family as they walked, both launching into long lectures about the history of the Holmes’ and the important remaining members. Basil had glumly absorbed the information, dedicating a small corner of his mind's attic space for royal trivia. After they’d clambered on and on, John began to quiz him on it all, somehow determining in his little brain that knowing which second cousin wore silver buttons on his coat would convince the Emperor he was genuine.

He had been a longsuffering participant, but now he was through. It was a dull, tiresome practice, and absolutely unnecessary. He had no plans to try to convince the Emperor that he was his long-lost brother. Mycroft Holmes would have one look at Basil and know he was nobody important. By then he’d be in Paris and free to explore its secrets. Free to seek out the enigma of his past. Perhaps John, disappointed but needing diversion, would help him.

Basil glanced over at the other man. He had shed his coat, and faint sheen of sweat was shining on his forehead, curling the back his blonde hair to his neck. John had lost his crutch on the train, but didn’t seem to miss it, walking with the ease of youth. He seemed different from the man who the night before had gingerly rubbed the cold from his wounded shoulder; this John was drumming with something like excitement and urgency. It made Basil's stomach clench in curiousity in something bewilderingly like hunger.

_“It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go._  
 _It's a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know!_  
 _Goodbye, Piccadilly, farewell, Leicester Square!_  
 _It's a long long way to Tipperary,_  
 _But my heart's right there!"_

Basil rolled his eyes. Lestrade was apparently fond of breaking into song, a fact he’d been keenly aware of for most of their excursion. He’d crooned a dozen different tunes, some of them crude and many of them about life at war. John had joined in on a few, laughing at his companion’s antics, and teasing Basil’s unfamiliarity with the songs.

“ _Paddy wrote a letter, to his Irish Molly-O,_  
 _Saying, 'Should you not receive it, write and let me know!_  
 _If I make mistakes in spelling, Molly, dear,' said he,_  
 _'Remember, it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me!"_

“For god’s sake…” Basil muttered as the ex-guard skipped about.

“Thinking about _your_ Molly-O, Greg?” John teased.

Lestrade paused and sent his friend a mischievous grin. “Why do you think I signed up for this poor excuse of a con? I’ve got to woo my woman back!”

John laughed and shook his head.

“Who’s Molly-O?” Basil asked.

John frowned. “Molly, the Emperor’s first cousin on his mother’s side. Remember? Do we need to go through the family tree again?”

Basil sneered and shook his head. “God, no. I remember, daughter of George, brother to the late Empress.” He inclined his head and narrowed his eyes. “Does she live in Paris?”

John looked away and ducked his head. “Ah, yes, well. She’s very close to the Emperor.”

“Close?” Basil clenched his jaw.

Lestrade slowed to their pace and looked quizzically at John. “Yes, well we have to see her first. She’s the one who decides who can meet with His Highness.”

Basil stopped, glaring at his two captors. “You didn't think to mention that? Not only do I have to put on this little show for the Emperor, but also his _secretary?_ ”

Lestrade’s face turned dark. “Lady Molly is one of the most kind and fair people you’ll ever be likely to meet. She is a member of the royal family, and far more regal than _you._ ”

John placed a placating hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Greg, don’t.”

He inclined his head toward Basil. “It’s just a few questions. Like we’ve been doing today.”

Basil flayed out a hand. “But it wasn’t part of the deal,” He sputtered angrily, “I said I’d go see the Emperor. I didn’t say I’d put on a vaudeville for the entire royal family!”

John’s eyes grew impossibly large as he looked up into Basil’s face. “It _is_ for the Emperor. It’s the only way anyone can see him. Lestrade’s relationship with Molly is our only way in!”

Basil sighed and looked between the two conspirators. Finally he threw his hands up in the air. “Fine! But I can’t take anymore of this quizzing. I’m done.”

“What?” It was amazing how quickly John’s face could go from pleading to outraged. “You have to! The only way she’ll let us through is if you play the part! And you have to be good, Basil. You said you were _brilliant._ ”

They’d reached a small bridge that ran over a brook. Basil shook his head in disgust and leaned to the side, hanging his head over the water and trying to keep from lashing out. John approached him.

“We made a deal, Basil.”

“You failed to mention the details of what I was agreeing to.”

“So what? Are you saying you’re done? Are you going to give up just like that?”

Basil turned to glare at him. “At least I’m smart enough to know this is a completely idiotic waste of time! The deal was to get me to Paris, and where the hell are we, John? By the time we get there, the Emperor will be practically in his grave!”

The other man let out a growl of frustration and swiveled around to disappear into the woods beyond the brook. Basil smirked and leaned back over the side of the bridge, watching the dirty water swirl past.

“That wasn’t smart; he’s a dangerous man. Best not to incense him.”

Basil sighed and lowered his forehead to his arms. Lestrade pulled at some weeds that had crawled up the bridge’s side and threw them into the passing water.

“I think he really believes you could pull it off, you know. Be him, be the Grand Duke Sherlock.”

The younger man squinted up at Lestrade and sighed.

“He’s delusional. Made blind by greed. I will never be a convincing Sherlock Holmes.”

Lestrade drummed his fingers on the smooth wood. “I remember that day at the Trevor House, you know. I remember a smart-arsed kid with black curls who told half the guard about who was sleeping with whose wives as he was being cuffed to his fellow delinquents.”

Basil quirked a half-smile. “Wiggins told me to run my mouth as often as possible when there were citizen police around.”

The other man shook his head. “I hope to god the Americans know what to do with that bastard.”

Basil’s smile vanished and he turned toward the water again.

“He’s dead.” He said quietly.

“I know.” Lestrade breathed.

Basil ran a hand to his lips and breathed deeply.

“Were you there? When they shot him.”

“No, I had left the citizen police by then. Couldn’t stand their shit.”

Basil gave him an inquiring eyebrow. “You saw them do something. Something unforgivable.”

Lestrade’s answer was interrupted by an angry howl of pain and a loud, “fucking rocks!” from the direction of the woods.

Both men stared at the line of trees.

“Take it easy on John. He’s had a lot of…disappointments.”

Basil huffed. “Haven’t we all?”

Lestrade pulled at another weed. “He lost his whole family in the castle siege. He was ten years old and he was running messages from blockade to blockade in the middle of a revolution. His whole life he’s only known violence and death and loss... even the healing he was taught made him bitter.”

Basil looked away from the woods. “He wasn’t the only orphan who roamed the streets of Nodol alone.”

“Well you had Wiggins. John probably would have been with you too, stealing and making mischief, if it wasn’t for that doctor. He managed to make himself a hero during the war. You should have seen the way he saved lives, even in the trenches. I’ve never known a less selfish person in my life.”

Basil frowned.

“Trenches? But he can’t be more than twenty, now. How could he have been in The Great War? Oh. Obvious. Lied about his age, and his medical training. But that would mean he wasn’t shot during the revolution, but injured overseas?”

Lestrade nodded. “I was surprised he didn’t correct you yesterday.”

Basil rolled his eyes. “There’s always something,” he murmured.

“Murray took him under his wing to keep him out of harms way during the revolution. But John was stubborn about enlisting, and decided to run away to France. When he got back…”

“What happened to the old doctor?”

“The citizen police shot him and burned his house down. The only reason they had was they believed him loyal to the old monarchy. I was with John, when it happened.”

Basil looked at him with wide eyes.

“You did say unforgivable.” Lestrade shrugged.

“It’s getting dark.”

Both of the men startled when they heard John approach. His eyes were sad and his jaw set. Lestrade looked chagrined and opened his mouth to apologize, but John shook his head sharply.

“There’s a town just around the bend. We’ll find a way to Brighthaven from there.”

“Do you think we can make it to the docks tonight?”

John nodded. “I don’t think we’re that far. Probably an hours drive. Lots of time to ready His Highness.” He glanced at Basil.

The young man swallowed and looked down the road. “We’ll be in Paris by tomorrow morning. Good. Plenty of time to memorize the names of all the royal hounds.”

John stared at him for a moment and then let out a quick laugh. “Just the one. Your Irish Setter pup.”

“Redbeard, yes I remember. Already went over those then.” He smiled tentatively.

Lestrade’s eyebrows came together. “Did we talk about that? I must have missed it.”

John shrugged. “It’s starting to get muddled, to be honest. We’ll have to be more thorough. So no more songs about your sweetheart Molly.”

“Oh come on!” Lestrade cried out. Basil chuckled at John as they took down the road again. In the fading sunlight his eyes were nearly turquoise.

“What about Mary then, John? Eh? You love the one about Mary!”

“No Greg, for god’s sake!”

Lestrade took a deep breath and belted the final chorus as their long shadows rounded the bend.

_“That's the wrong way to tickle Mary,”_  
 _That's the wrong way to kiss._  
 _Don't you know that over here, lad_  
 _They like it best like this._  
 _Hooray pour Les Français_  
 _Farewell Angleterre._  
 _We didn't know how to tickle Mary,_  
 _But we learnt how over there!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's A Long Way To Tipperary was a popular marching song for British soldiers during WWI, first recorded in 1914. The crude chorus at the end was an alternative verse the soldiers came up with for laughs.
> 
> You can listen to the original version here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XVM-tFAdADg


	8. And Suddenly I See it At a Glance

“God I hate boats,” Lestrade moaned as he leaned back into his bench. John grinned at him faintly as he sat next to him. He eyed his friend.

“Where’s Basil?”

“Hm?” John’s eyes were looking out into the black water, like he might find an answer to something there.

“Our young Grand Duke, have you lost him?”

John’s eyes finally focused. “Oh, no, he’s… changing. Into the things we picked up in Brighthaven. I don’t think they’ll fit him, to be honest. He’s… taller than I thought.”

Lestrade sighed and watched as a sailor made his way around the deck. He nodded to the two gentlemen as he glanced over some rigging. John scrubbed a hand down his face.

“I’ve never been so tired or so hungry in my life,” he sighed.

“And you call yourself a soldier.”

“We all lived off cigarettes and adrenaline then. Didn’t need sleep. Couldn’t sleep.”

Lestrade thought of cold nights in trenches, the sky brightened with gunfire. He glanced over at the young ex-soldier.

“We’re nearly there, John. Basil’s going to do beautifully. All that money! We won’t know what to do with it.”

Lestrade’s mind drifted to chestnut-colored hair and pretty smiles. Only a few hours from now he’d see Molly again. He looked down at himself and grimaced.

“I need a few hours sleep. And tea. God I’d give up all the reward money for a decent cuppa right now.”

“Good to know my hard work is going to channel such worthwhile causes.”

The men’s heads popped up to see Basil standing with his hands on his hips, looking a little nervous underneath his normal sneer of disapproval. Lestrade choked back his laughter when he saw John’s expression. His eyes had grown wide, and his lips had parted in shock. He looked away quickly and cleared his throat, apparently trying to appear indifferent to the way Basil looked in well-fitted trousers and a tight waistcoat.

Greg nodded toward Basil and clapped his hands. “Well done! You actually look like a descent member of society now.”

Basil glared at that, tugging at the high collar. “It’s all a bit small. I should have brought my coat up here, it’s freezing.”

John made a strange coughing noise and stood up suddenly, wincing as he tried to speak.

“Good idea, I’ll go get it!”

“John, wait, no.” Lestrade gripped his friend’s arm. He turned to Basil, “You can’t wear that dingy thing when we meet the Emperor. We’ll just have to buy you something else in Paris.”

The young man sighed and went to the edge of the boat to look at the dark ocean. “I hope it was worth that money to get us on this boat. I’ve known ship captains to be greedy, but he barely hesitated.”

Lestrade smiled. “It’s all about the right kind of coercion. You’re not bad at it yourself there, Basil. Molly doesn’t stand a chance between the two of us.”

They grinned at each other for a moment until John cleared his throat. He was shooting Greg a look like he wanted to speak to him alone but wasn’t sure how to do so discreetly. Lestrade decided to ignore him and instead bowed in front of Basil.

“Your Majesty, the Grand Duke Sherlock. I would be honored if I could have this dance.”

Basil frowned and stared at Greg like he was insane. “I don’t dance.”

“Sure you do! All the Holmes’ dance with the ease and grace of royalty. Isn’t that right, John?”

John’s left hand was clenched in a fist and his eyebrows were pushed together. He licked his lips and nodded. “Er, yes.”

“Yes,” Lestrade smiled at his friend, “and now that you are dressed for a ball, you will dance like you are at one.”

Basil looked bewildered, but accepted Greg’s hand. They bowed, and then Basil floundered a bit, unsure where to put his hands. Lestrade clicked his tongue and looked to John.

“Ah, not going to work with me John. I’m too tall. He needs someone your size, I think.”

Even in the dim light on the deck, Lestrade could make out John’s flush. He glared at him but nodded, walking over to Basil and taking his hand.

“Here,” he instructed as he placed Basil’s hand on his waist. Then he gripped his hand with his right, placed his left on Basil’s shoulder, and took a step closer. They stared at each other for a moment, equally bewildered and unsure, until Lestrade cleared his throat.

“And one, two, three, one, two, three,” he started to chant while stamping his feet to the beat. Slowly they turned and waltzed around the deck, tugging on each other and looking hesitant.

Lestrade sighed and called out, “Let him lead, John!”

They slowed and John licked his lips. He nodded to Basil, and they were off again, this time more fluid as the younger man gained confidence. John’s face flitted from awkward friendliness to frozen panic to pathetic flirtatiousness as Basil twirled them about. The other man just seemed curious, trying to read John’s strange behavior. He kept looking at Lestrade for some sort of confirmation that he wasn’t the only one noticing how jumpy the ex-soldier was being. Lestrade just smiled back, uncertain how to help the two realize what was happening.

It was fairly obvious that John was besotted. From the moment he set eyes on Basil in the ballroom of the old palace, the John that was callous, angry and desperately determined to pull of this con had fallen away. Suddenly in his place was a young man, intrigued and attracted and unsure of himself. Lestrade _knew,_ of course, that John had history with both sexes. It was a hushed up part of life at war; secrets of comfort and adrenaline rushes and fear held firmly behind loyal lips; a brotherhood of whispered promises had emerged from their ranks.

Greg saw how John held up his walls, resistant and unwilling to trust a soul. But then Basil comes along, a snark, intelligent, puzzling orphan, and John was all laughter and trust. He was waltzing for Christ's sake! Something about this strange young man attracted his friend, and Lestrade wanted to be pleased. But was Basil the sort of person to be trusted? On first meeting he'd lied about who he was, seemed still resistant to share any part of his past.

But the way John looked at him. It was almost as if they'd erased something in each other. Their pasts had melted away into some inexplicable feeling of hope for a brilliant future.

It was lovely, except, well it sort of ruined their plans, didn’t it? If Basil meant to carry out their bargain, he’d put on a dazzling show for Molly and the Emperor. And if they bought into it, John would be rich, able to restart his life. Greg would be rich too. That had been the point of the endeavour. Get rich fast, get away from Nodol, finally start the life they'd been denied because of war and revolution. That was all he’d allowed himself to think of until... now he thought about Molly’s sweet face and guilt swept through him. Could they really do this? Deceive the family they’d once fought for?

Lestrade remembered the night he’d first met the Emperor. He was just a kid then, barely older than Basil, but a king nonetheless, proudly hanging on to his crumbling monarchy. The thin boy had praised Greg’s plan, trusted him to see it through. As the palace caught fire and Lestrade had attempted to rescue the remaining courtiers and servants, he had thought of his sharp eyes, rimmed with red. A grieving child guised as an emperor.

_We’re fools,_ Greg thought as he saw Basil smile at something John murmured, _we’re all three of us liars and deceivers desperate for a new life_.

It couldn’t end well. It would explode, like their train had, forcefully and suddenly.

Basil and John had stopped dancing and we’re staring at each other now, hands still aloft, breathing each other’s air.

“I never should have let them dance,” Greg whispered.

 

\--

 

Basil was feeling light-headed.

He hadn’t eaten in quite a while, but that was normal; he’d gone days without food away from the orphanage. He was also enormously tired from the amount of exercise he’d had to endure after their train wreck and subsequent romp through the woods. It could’ve been the sensation of being on a boat for the first time, or perhaps spinning around the deck of that boat, dancing like a fool to no music.

Basil could blame all of those things and sleep soundly because of it. But the truth was niggling at him, blocking his normal thought process and broadcasting loud and clear in forefront of his brain.

He was feeling light-headed because of John Watson.

Because John Watson had looked at him as they danced and it had been curiosity and vulnerability and fear and for one fleeting second, absolute naked desire. His stomach had dropped at that, causing him to stop their ridiculous waltzing and try to will his body back into control.

“I’m feeling kind of dizzy,” he’d breathed out.

“Well, we should probably stop,” John had said, but his eyes had traveled to Basil’s lips then, and suddenly his heart was beating so fast he could swear John could hear it.

“We have – stopped,” he faltered.

And John had sighed and leaned forward, and Basil’s stomach had flipped – he wasn’t sure what to do – when a member of the crew had appeared and inquired if any of them would like supper. John instantly leapt away from Basil, rapidly speaking about his intense hunger and desperation for tea.

The rest of the evening had been relatively normal; John and Lestrade had feasted like they’d never seen food before, and regaled stories of the war with the other veterans in the mess. Basil had noticed one blonde sailor sitting outside their cheery group, a brooding, sleep-deprived individual, watching their conversation in obvious disgust. He thought he saw the man give John an especially murderous look and had suddenly felt uneasy. Basil spent the rest of dinner trying to get a read on the man, but he could only deduce that he was a veteran, a citizen of Nodol and a recent addition to this ship’s crew.

Before he could find out more, Lestrade was beckoning him to their room, insisting he rest. So Basil had found himself stripped to his under clothes and sitting on the lower bunk of their tiny quarters, trying to overcome seasickness. He was watching John snore from his rough cot on the floor, and remembered the way his sighs had caressed his face while they danced. Basil looked away at the memory, a little embarrassed at his indiscretion.

Lestrade came in, his hair dripping where water had caught when he’d washed his face. He smiled at Basil and handed him a flask.

“It helps with the seasickness according to one of the crewman. Thought it couldn’t hurt.”

Basil cocked an eyebrow, but took a swig, trying to tamp down any rising bile. Lestrade took a drink too, and glanced at John’s unconscious body.

“God, he can sleep through anything. Always has.”

Lestrade sneezed hard then, and tried to wipe at his nose with his sleeve. Basil grimaced and searched in his coat pockets for his handkerchief. Lestrade took it with a thank you and then took another swig from the flask. He eyed the metal object Basil had removed from his coat and was subconscious stroking as he observed John’s chest rise and fall.

“What’s that?” Lestrade asked.

Basil glanced at his hand and back to the older man’s smile.

“It’s a pocket watch.”

“Is it yours?” Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

Basil sneered. “Yes, I didn’t steal it. I’ve always had it. They found me with it when I was eight.”

“Who did?”

The young man sighed and ran his thumb across the front of the metal. “An old farmer named Wilkes. He found me wandering around the woods, completely lost and not knowing who I was or where I should go.”

Lestrade gaped at Basil. “You don’t know who you are?”

Basil frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m an orphan of the siege, obviously. I was found just a few miles from there. I had some sort of head trauma; I’m not sure. But my parents either abandoned me or were killed, because I was all alone.”

Lestrade stared at him. “But John would have known you. He grew up in the palace.”

Basil shrugged. “Maybe they weren’t on that side of the rebellion. It’s likely they were part of the mob you spoke of.” He thought about the old man’s fear, his questions about whether he’d seen any violence.

“In any event, Wilkes found me and asked me my name, and I didn’t have an answer for him, so he took me to the orphanage and introduced me as Basil to them.”

“Wow.” Lestrade took another drink and offered Basil some. The young man nodded his head in thanks and swallowed more of the brown liquor.

“So all you have from your past is that pocket watch?”

Basil nodded. “And Paris.” He flipped it over to the back, watching Lestrade scrutinize the engraving.

“That’s why you want to go there. You’re looking for your family.”

Basil rolled his eyes. He placed the watch back into his coat pocket and folded it as a pillow onto the bunk. Slowly he slid onto the uncomfortable cot, feeling the warm liquor swish in the bottom of his stomach.

“I don’t have any family, Lestrade.” He looked at the underside of the top bunk. “But Paris is the only clue I haven’t fully… investigated.”

The older man watched him for a moment, and then nodded. He climbed the ladder to the top bunk and settled quietly.

 

\--

 

Basil wandered down the dark alley, looking for the damn entrance the man had been talking about. It was just a wall; there wasn’t so much a crack in its surface, all the way down. He huffed and tried pushing at bricks here and there, but nothing budged. Suddenly he felt a hand tug at his arm and John was there, smiling like a loon.

“Need help?” He asked, and was suddenly ripping rubbish and brick away from the wall, revealing the entrance he’d been searching for.

“That wasn’t there before, was it?” He wanted to ask or did ask; he couldn’t remember.

But they were climbing the spiral stairs and John was laughing about something Basil said. It was such a beautiful sound that he wished he remembered what he’d said to cause it. They reached the landing and John leaned into Basil’s space, looking at his lips and clearing his throat. Basil froze, reaching out to touch John’s arm, but then the man spun around and raced into the attic of Basil’s mind.

He was looking at it with his mouth open and eyes wide. Basil beamed with pride as John praised him, remarking on how clever the organization was, and how beautifully kept the shelves. And suddenly he was on him, pushing him against the wall and running his hands up his chest, kissing at his neck and jawline.

Basil arched into John’s touch, surprised and aroused, trying to get his arms around him. He leaned down to press his lips to John’s, but the shorter man continued to assault his neck, his throat, his collarbones. He had wedged a leg between Basil’s and the pressure was deliriously good. But just as suddenly, he was off him again, laughing and throwing open an enormous trunk.

“Have you seen this?” He was asking excitedly, pointing inside. Puzzled, Basil followed, realizing that John had managed open the elusive "For Paris" trunk. He peered inside curiously and felt John wrap his arms around him from behind. They fell forward suddenly, into the dark void of the trunk. He tried to scream but couldn’t, only feeling dizzy and breathless in the sensation of falling.

They landed on grass, tall enough to reach Basil’s hips when he stood. John was streaking across the meadow, his head high, focused and urgent. He looked over his shoulder and called out Basil’s name, urging him forward. He waded through the grass after him, trying to make out what was wrong.

John had stopped at a stone bridge and was leaning forward, talking to someone below in the water. Basil looked over and was surprised to see two faces peering up at him from the water. It was all so bright; he squinted against the glare to make out the swimmers.

“Come in! Come in!” A girl called. Sheridan, the young Duchess, Basil realized. He remembered Lestrade’s description of her dark hair. And the man with her looked remarkably like his description of Lord William, the Emperor’s uncle. 

“Hello!” Basil called back and turned back to smile at John. But his friend was ashen with fear, his eyes wide and twitching. Basil grabbed John’s shoulder, trying to make sense of it, and suddenly John was up on the side of the bridge, gasping for air and reaching for Basil’s hand.

He clambered up after him, trying to understand.

“We’ve got to jump!” He called out and leapt from the bridge. Basil’s blood ran cold and he screamed as John plummeted into the dark pit that had replaced their pleasant pond. He lost his balance in his shock and was pitching forward, about to fall, when two strong arms circled him from behind. The brooding sailor from the mess hall was attempting to throw him into the pit, cursing as Basil struggled. He tried to free himself, but the sailor was stronger, dragging him down.

_“Basil!”_

He twisted and fought, flinging his limbs around and scratching at the sailor’s arms, but he couldn’t see anything, couldn’t breathe. He was freezing and wet, and his head pounded.

_“Basil!”_

Basil gasped and opened his eyes, falling onto the deck with a loud smack on top of John. He sat up again, pulling John after him and looked around in confusion. They were on the deck of the boat. Rain was blowing around them, and John was soaked, staring at him with concern.

“What’s – what’s happening?” He whipped around to look for the blonde sailor.

“Basil, you were sleepwalking. You almost jumped off the side of the boat!”

He stared at John. “Sleepwalking?”

“Yes, I had to wrestle you down. Are you okay?”

Basil’s breathing was harsh, and he shivered violently. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the images and clamp down the fear, but it was visceral and present, cold and clawing at his chest.

“Okay, now,” John helped Basil to his feet and wrapped an arm around him carefully, “you’re okay.” He led him back to their quarters, rubbing his arm and looking worried.

Lestrade was huddled in the middle of the room when they got back. He bolted up to help John get Basil onto the cot.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, Basil.”

The younger man looked at Greg quizzically. John pursed his lips.

“He was screaming in his sleep. Woke me up. That’s when we noticed you were gone.”

“I don’t know what was in that flask, but I’ve never been so terrified in my life.” Lestrade’s pupils were blown. He shook as he helped John divest Basil of his sopping underclothes. They wrapped a blanket around him and lowered him onto his bunk.

John frowned. “I wish I had my bag.” He took up Basil’s wrist and felt for his pulse. He shivered and pulled his arm back when John was done, attempting a sneer, but only managing to look shaken. John sighed and looked around for another blanket to dry himself off. He stripped to his pants, and Basil felt another shudder go through him. John sent a worried look his way.

“I should sleep with you,” he said. Basil must have looked affronted because John smiled a bit and explained, “Body heat to warm us both up. Plus you have the extra blanket now.”

Basil relaxed and nodded as John positioned himself on his side beside him, resting his arm across his friend’s chest and cradling his head with the other. Lestrade doused the lights and climbed the ladder to the top of his bunk.

After their breathing had grown even and Basil’s toes were warm again, John twitched next to him and asked, “Greg? Who gave you that flask?”


	9. Joie de Vivre

Moran’s lungs were burning. Paris had been warm in the spring daylight, but as he ran, turning sharply down darkened streets, his feet loud against cobblestone, he felt the lingering presence of winter biting his cheeks.

He paused as he neared the river, leaning his head back against the gritty bricks of the alleyway wall and trying to even out his panting. It was silent; just the small crests of water against the dock rippled through the midnight air. He closed his eyes, forcing air through his nose.

Then a shuffle behind him and he leapt from the wall, in a dead sprint toward the river. The footsteps were heavy; as he lunged around crates along the dock he heard a frustrated grunt, and unmistakably the low clang of a revolver clipping the edge of a stacked dingy. The bridge loomed ahead, casting a black shadow across the pavement. Moran turned back to the street, looking for cover, but the pursuer was undeterred.

He reached an alleyway, but found himself caught at a dead end. Moonlight slanted across the black-molded bricks; he could just make out the hulking shoulders of German. He reached for his knife, and readied himself.

“What are you going to do with that?” A teasing voice issued forth from somewhere behind the bodyguard. Moran closed his eyes.

“I didn’t know I’d find much trouble in Paris,” he responded, tightening his hold on the knife’s hilt.

“Sebastian, that’s not using your head.” The admonishment was sing-song, threatening. The German kept his rifle carefully trained on him.

The smaller man came into focus, hands in his pocket, looking as casual as a Sunday stroll. Moran tried to stop his shaking.

“I didn’t know they’d escaped. I saw the train explode.”

His master clicked his tongue disappointingly. “Messy, messy. And that poisonous flask. Most inelegant.”

Moran slumped, his eyes downcast and surrendered. “Master, please.”

“Oh, Sebastian,” Moriarty sighed and stretched out a hand. He slowly stroked one finger down the other man’s thick neck. Moran shuddered.

“How disappointing you are. Made it all the way to Paris, and decide to hide instead of finishing the job.”

“The police are after me.”

A hand curled around his throat loosely. “Imbeciles. That’s not really who you’re running from.”

Moran didn’t say anything. His pulse throbbed. The German still trained his revolver on him.

“Obviously,” Moriarty said, “I’m going to have kill them myself. I have such fond memories of Paris.”

He squeezed around Moran’s trachea. The man gasped, and instantly recoiled, but Moriarty only tightened his grasp. “It would be so… delicious,” he purred, “to strangle that brat with my own hands.”

His master released him, sending Moran reeling back, gulping in air. His hand rubbed at his throat as he watched Moriarty strut down toward his bodyguard, and lithely take the man’s gun.

“I ought to have you killed, Moran, but there might be use for you yet.” He rubbed his hand against the barrel in almost a caress. He turned the gun slowly and handed his servant the grip.

“The Emperor has been allowed to live for too long. His time has come, along with his little brother.”

His Master leaned in, pressing the barrel to his chest, eyes sharp as flint in the moonlight. Moran’s hand shook as he felt the gun grind into his palm.

“Don’t disappoint me again, Sebastian.”

 

 --

 

“And I remember, every summer we’d go to the pond and swim. Sometimes Uncle William would join us, even though Papa thought it was so undignified.”

A warm breeze slowly pushed the curtains inward toward the swarthy gentleman, causing brief shadows to flutter across the floor. Mycroft watched the steam from his cup of tea gently ease to the left. Molly’s hands were pressed palm to palm tightly, her fingers edged in white from the pressure.

“It’s unseasonably warm today,” he remarked and flicked his sharp eyes to his cousin’s.

Her lips twisted as she let out a short sigh. The young man looked puzzled, and turned to Molly with an apologetic smile.

“I’ve just realized that I’ve been speaking all this time. That’s terribly rude. I do apologize.”

Mycroft tilted his head back and barely suppressed a groan. Honestly, does he not know how fake his accent sounds? The Emperor leveled his eyes with the imposter for the first time since he’d entered the room.

“It’s often this warm in March in the South of Italy is it not?”

A large hand slipped down his thigh, but other than that, the young man looked unfazed; he was good this one.

“I would think so, Your Majesty. So close to the Mediterranean.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft reached out and took a sip of his cooling tea. “I’ve heard of a man in… Torre Annunziata, wasn’t it Lady Hooper? Yes, he is known for training actors for the Italian opera. In fact, I believe his company is in Paris this past month. Lady Hooper and I are incredibly fond of the opera, you see. I have a deeply serious interest in the company myself.”

The masterful pretense was gone now, the young man looking awkwardly unsure of whether to flee or defend himself. He was shooting desperate looks at Molly, but she was having none of it, only staring fiercely down at her teacup as though it had been the deceiver.

“Your Majesty,” the imposter began, but was interrupted by the entrance of Andrea. She immediately came to his chair, focused and blessedly unimpressed by the actor sputtering across from them.

“Oui, c'est quoi?” He glanced up at her tense face.

“Il a été vu, Monsieur.”

“Ah.” He looked to Molly who nodded and stood, prompting the humiliated young man to flounce after her to the door. He looked like he wanted to give a last ditched plea, but the woman shook her head at him and watched him leave in a huff. For a moment Mycroft watched her small shoulders slump as the door clicked shut.

“It’s not your fault, my dear,” he called after her. She turned shining eyes toward him. “He was rather good.”

Molly shook her head. “Je suis tellement désolé, Votre Altesse. I thought, for sure, this one was real. I mean, of course he’s real; he was human. But… the curls and the blue eyes. Presque le même.”

Mycroft raised a pale hand and gave her a sad smile. “It was always going to be a small possibility.”

She nodded and sniffed, looking out the window. Andrea shifted by his side and he glanced at her again.

“Where?”

“A train from Calais. At six this morning. Two men with him.”

“Do we know them?”

“They’re German. Brothers. Veterans of the Great War.”

Mycroft sighed as he looked over the file she showed him. Molly twitched by the windows.

“It was only a matter of time. If he has this level of protection, there’s a chance he’s weak. You know what needs to be done.”

Andrea nodded and briskly walked out. Lady Hooper turned as she left, face pale.

“Your Grace,” she began, but he stopped her again, standing and tugging his jacket straight.

“I’ve had quite enough of these parades of greedy, poorly trained charlatans, my dear cousin. It is excellent timing for my sake.”

The sweet girl glided over, lip between her teeth. “But if he really _is_ alive, if he is out there…”

Mycroft shook his head sadly and gently tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “It is a very vain hope. It always was. And I’ve grown quite tired of it all. Now, go home. I’ll have them send the carriage for you tomorrow.”

She lowered her face and clasped her hands in front of her skirt. “Oui, Votre Altesse,” she breathed. Quietly she exited and left him alone.

Mycroft lowered himself to his chair again. He pulled out his pocket watch and ran a cold thumb across the surface. When he twisted it open, he registered the time. The quiet ticks felt disappointing somehow.

 

\--

 

Lestrade shifted for the fifth time in ten minutes, tugging on his collar. John gave him a sideways glance.

“I had no idea you were so gone her, mate.”

Greg huffed. “Course I am. Doesn’t help this is the first time I’ve seen her in months. And I’m stuck having you lot with me.”

A groan issued from where Basil was standing by the window. It was the first sound he’d since morning.

“What’s wrong with you then? Nerves finally getting to you?”

Basil glared at Greg. “Hardly. But I’m fairly certain this whole scheme is compromised if you insist on letting your guilt take over your brain.”

“Oi! Who’s guilty? I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, and acting like a child caught with his hand in the biscuits. Now if you could _shut up_ for five seconds –”

“God! You are the most arrogant sod I’ve ever met, you know that? I ought to –”

“Alright!” John was clenching his fists. “Girls, just calm down. Basil, do you want to go through it all again or do you think you’ve got it?”

The young man rolled his eyes and turned back around to look out the window in a clear rejection. John sighed and took a seat again. Lady Hooper’s drawing room was surprising humble in taste for a member of the royal family. She was technically a Baroness, but being born in France and having no connection to the old estate, her title was somewhat diluted. Then again, the only kind of wealthy living John had ever experienced was the lavish dressings of the palace. The fair lady was far simpler in her displays of affluence.

They’d been waiting nearly an hour for her arrival. They had been expected the day before, but they had been unable to send word. John supposed it was a miracle they’d made it today due to the unexpected hitches in their journey. He’d tried to stay awake all night, gun in hand in case any trouble came their way again, but had drifted off, warm next to Basil and lulled by the boat’s motion. In the morning, the flask was missing, and so was the sailor who had given it to Greg. The captain seemed bewildered by the entire situation, claiming he’d only just hired on the mysterious man the morning before, and hadn’t known a thing about him.

Greg had been surly with the captain; he was convinced they were swindlers and meant to murder them and steal their money, but Basil disagreed. He seemed to think the crew’s only crime was smuggling. This proved to be helpful collateral in getting the captain to talk, but ultimately the search came up empty. The sailor was gone, the mystery of the poisoned flask unsolved.

Greg was determined to report the incident to the Dieppe police, much to Basil’s protests. The younger man seemed to think that the sailor had made a run for Paris, and was most likely a criminal that had noticed Basil eyeing him the night before. He’d tried to slow them down with the flask; it was pointless to report anything. On the bus to Paris they’d quarreled for an hour until John had finally suggested they go to the Parisian police and leave it at that.

Basil hadn’t said a word to either of them since then, gloomily slumped down in his bench until they’d arrived in Paris. He’d even been surprisingly quiet when John had picked out a new coat for him while Lestrade had visited the police yard, only pausing a moment to assess the material and then wordlessly slipping it on.

John watched him now, for once without the shield of a collar obscuring his face. The late afternoon sunshine highlighted the sharp angles of his face, contrasting with the softness of his freshly washed curls. It had been disconcerting to wake up that morning with those curls tickling his nostrils, smelling like sea air. For a moment, he’d forgotten himself, content with the warm body tucked near his, and had nuzzled deeper into Basil’s neck.

Lestrade had pointedly not said anything about the way John was acting around Basil, but he knew it was plain as day. It had been ages since he’d felt attracted to anyone; ages since he’d felt that familiar tug in his belly when a light pair of eyes met his. As they’d swayed on that deck together, John felt desire take over and suddenly he _wanted_. It was such a swift, hungry thing, he’d simply leaned in sure that Basil would understand.

But just as abruptly he’d remembered himself, the secrecy necessary for such taboo desires, the quest they were on. Basil wasn’t another soldier, lost and starved for affection in the shadows of the trenches. He was an impervious stranger. Perhaps he was lost, but not without intelligence. And he was the key to the Emperor’s reward. John had opened his eyes and seen an observant pair peering back at him in confusion. He was not swooning forward in reciprocated desire. He was not hungry to be touched.

Of course it had been hard to remember that as Basil had clung to him in terror in the rain, gulping for air and looking to John like he was salvation. How different was the Basil who’d shivered in his arms than the one who stood now, an icy statue in new clothing, looking all the world like a prince who had simply lost his way.

Basil started and turned, looking John right in the eyes. “She’s here,” he stated and walked to the center of the room.

Muffled conversation and footsteps were heard just before the door opened, and a soft young woman bustled in, face pinked by the sunshine. All three men stood as she entered, but her eyes were only for Greg. A girlish smile took over her face as she glided over to him, taking his hands in hers.

“I’m terribly cross with you for being so late.” Her eyes were shining with pleasure. Greg looked like he might burst. John met Basil’s eyes, his own thoughts reflected there, and had to hold back his laugh.

“We were detained. Horrid story, really.”

“C'est malheureux!” She finally turned then, looking curiously at John and Basil.

“Ah, yes,” Lestrade made an awkward motion toward the other two men. “Lady Hooper, may I present, my friend, John Watson. We fought together in the war.”

John bowed and smiled. “Enchanté, Madame.”

“And you, Mr. Watson. Mr. Lestrade’s written to me about you, of course. I’ve never heard him give a man higher praise.”

John glanced at Greg in surprise. “I’m afraid he’s exaggerated my merits, Lady Hooper.”

“Oh non! He only ever tells the absolute truth!” She pinked a bit at her proclamation, and turned a weak smile toward Lestrade. He grinned back at her, and for a moment, they were lost again in affectionate gaze. John cleared his throat pointedly.

Lestrade looked to him sharply and then to Basil. “And, Lady Hooper, I confess I’ve quite been longing to introduce you to someone I have just recently made an acquaintance. May I present, the Grand Duke Sherlock Holmes.”

John’s stomach clenched in nervous participation as the young lady turned her eyes to Basil. As he followed her gaze, he was astounded to see that Basil had transformed somehow right before Lady Hooper’s eyes had lit upon him. Gone was the icy veneer; before them stood a sweet face man, taking the woman’s fingers and pressing them to his lips.

“It is the highest honor to be reintroduced to you, Madame.” Basil’s voice was sonorous, his eyes earnest. Everyone was stunned into silence.

“I –” Lady Hooper turned her eyes to Greg in her surprise.

“Allow me to explain,” Lestrade said. He led her to a chair, as her eyes roved over Basil’s figure.

“He’s been in hiding. The situation in Nodol is still volatile, especially since the war. He didn’t know who to go to.”

John looked to Basil. It had been the story they’d rehearsed a thousand times, but he knew the young man thought it was an idiotic cover. He’d protested that it made Sherlock looked like an imbecile for not finding his way to Paris. Lestrade had pointed out that Basil seemed more offended to be mistaken for stupid than concerned about the royals swallowing their story.

Lady Hooper was clasping her hands tightly in her lap. She twisted her lips together, doubtlessly turning over the story in her mind with her own ideas of what happened ten years ago. She flicked her eyes to Greg after a moment of silent assessment.

“I’ve got to – I’ve got questions, if that’s alright.”

Lestrade smiled and nodded. She turned toward Basil then, girlish delight gone and replaced with practiced discernment.

“Do you remember where you were born?”

Basil smiled fondly and said, “Windsborough Castle.”

“Correct.”

Something about the quiet stoicism with which Lady Hooper delivered her test reminded John of Murray. He thought of the cold nights sitting on the old doctor’s hearth, dutifully repeating the terms and practices Murray explained as he cleaned his instruments. Basil’s face, a bewilderingly genius farce that neither John nor Greg could have expected, was all contrition and excitement. Sherlock Holmes, the lost Duke of Nodol sat with his hands clenched before him, slowly melting Lady Hooper’s clinical eyes into warm pools of nostalgia.

Greg looked absolutely astounded as the young man answered every question with unerring memory, building in half-truths and endearing stutters and jokes that had them all smiling. Lestrade more than once met John’s eyes, surprised and nearly bubbling with early victory. John wasn’t so eager to believe Lady Hooper was taken in, no matter the way she rapturously leaned in to Basil’s words.

Of course, it could be that for the last half of the questions, the kid had been laying it on a little thick. I mean was the lip bite even necessary? Charming was one thing, but Greg was sitting right there. No need to woo the lady. She had even let out an unladylike giggle as he’d recalled the story of Lestrade’s seasickness aboard the boat. Of course, he left out the part about their tirade with the mysterious flask or his own illness, but Basil wouldn’t want the Duke to seem unwell.

“And I’ve always longed to return to my brother, you see. I’ve never recovered from the pain of losing my family.”

The false Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes actually filled with unshed tears. The Emperor’s cousin looked overwhelmed with pity, and reached for her handkerchief. Basil quickly wiped away at his shining eyes, and let out a weak thank you.

“Je n’en reviens pas.” Lady Hooper leaned backwards in her chair.

Lestrade took her small hand into hers. “It’s true, My Lady. Look at his face. He could not be anyone but the late Emperor’s son.”

She smiled and nodded. “Just like his father. And his mother’s eyes.”

It was quiet for a few moments as the three assessed Basil’s sharp cheekbones and strong nose. Basil’s eyes met John and the same gripping anticipation that had first enthralled him on the ballroom floor, now came over him again. He almost didn’t hear Lady Hooper’s final question.

“But you’ve not told me. How did you escape the siege? Where did you go?”

Lestrade had grown still, his eyes looking over the young woman’s head in absolute panic. It was a question they had never anticipated. The Emperor’s escape was a subject of sensitivity and mystery. To question why he had not stayed to fight and save his family and subjects was nearly treason. Even Lestrade among the royal guard had never been certain how the man had managed to get to Paris. Not until a young soldier had whispered to him in the dark his only secret, the night before he was sure he was going to die.

John was there again, beneath the cold German stars, pressing hard against the pulsing wound of a comrade, shaking with fear. He felt the ground shake with passing tanks; he breathed in the ash. Lestrade’s face was lit by the shaking butt of a cigarette, spilling out his love for a girl in France he could never have, reciting the failed plan he’d presented to the young Emperor of Nodol and had watched fail with each explosion of brick and glass. John was there, positive his life was over, that he would never see Nodol again, and fiercely telling his own version of that night.

Terror and cold. That was all John felt as Basil looked through dark lashes into likely the Emperor’s only confidante.

“There was a boy,” the false Sherlock Holmes began, voice trembling, brows furrowed. “There was a boy who… opened a wall. We fled through the kitchen. To the bridge overlooking the pond. And… the boy dragged us over it, into the water. We were running from… someone.”

An explosion of fire reflected in grey eyes. Dark curls dripping over a pale nose. A terrible, dark man screaming out.

Basil’s face was suddenly wiped blank. “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly, “It’s all a bit muddled, really.”

Lady Hooper stood up abruptly, her eyes glassy and mouth quivering. Lestrade followed, offering his arm to support her.

“What is it, My Lady? Has he shocked you?”

“No, no,” she choked out, “It’s only that… it’s too late. Oh you poor dear. I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

John was frozen in his seat, unable to move, only able to watch and listen. The woman was clutching her hands together like she might pray for divine intervention.

“What’s too late?” Lestrade asked.

“Oh, if only. I should’ve said from the beginning, but I didn’t know!”

“Please.” Basil shot up out of his chair. “Don’t be so distressed. We should have guessed it.”

The Lady took his hands in hers, and as they stared at one another, John thought he saw some secret message pass between them. She breathed deeply and nodded once, then turned away. Lestrade looked at each of them, bewildered.

The door to the sitting room opened suddenly and a young police inspector was ushered in.

“Inspecteur François le Villard, Mademoiselle.”

The man bowed quickly as the butler closed the door. “Excusez mon interruption, La Baronne, mais on m'a dit que je pouvais trouver Monsieur Lestrade ici.”

“Il est ici,” she said, strength returned to her since her silent communication with Basil. “What is this about, inspector?”

Villard was short and sharp-eyed, bouncing on his feet as he addressed Lestrade. “We’ve come across a body not far from here holding a flask with the same description you gave this morning.”

Basil was across the room quick, his gentle-faced Duke fading into the sharp focus John recognized as his friend’s natural expression. “Are you sure it’s the same?”

The mustached inspector eyed Basil speculatively but nodded. “We believe so. If Monsieur Lestrade would come with me to the scene – ”

“And me,” Basil interrupted, “I had some of it too. I’ll be able to identify it by smell alone.”

The Frenchmen looked to Greg who sighed and said, “He will probably be of more help than me.”

“And John,” the younger man piped up, gesturing toward him, “He saw first hand the affects it had on both of us and was perfectly lucid. And he’s a doctor.”

For some inexplicable reason, these are the words that melted John. He stood up awkwardly and nodded, unable to meet Basil’s eyes.

Villard gave a quick bob of his head. “Bon. If you will follow me then, messieurs. Merci, Mademoiselle Hooper.”

“We’ll be back, I promise. Please, think over what we’ve shown you.” With a lingering kiss to her small knuckles, Greg followed the police inspector out.

Basil bowed quickly, but not without sharing a meaningful glance with the lady. John, still dazed, merely bid her farewell and followed the others to the crime scene.  

 

\--

 

The corpse’s pale, blue face was smeared against the grey pavement outside of the hotel. Several policemen surrounded the body, their shadows from the fading sunlight leaving long black ghosts to hover around it’s halo of dried blood. Basil felt John shiver next to him.

“What time did you find him?” He asked the French inspector as they approached the corpse. A few of the other policemen eyed them curiously.

“Almost an hour ago.”

Basil crouched by the head, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Lestrade. He tried to keep the smirk away from his face. The dead man’s head was almost too smashed in to be of much help in identification. Basil carefully lifted the man’s fingers and glanced at his fingernails.

“Arrêter!” Came a shrill voice from the throng of French police. Basil let go of the corpse’s hand and stood fluidly. A red-faced man was marching across the scene, staring incredulously at Villard.

“Que faites-vous? Qui sont ces hommes?”

Villard paled a bit. “S'il vous plaît, Monsieur, they are the men who reported the flask. Monsieur Lestrade et…” He stared at Basil and John.

Basil whipped off his glove and offered his hand to the inspector. “Sherlock Scott,” he said as genially as he could manage, “et c'est le Dr. Watson.”

John merely nodded, looking as uncomfortable as one could possibly manage. Basil inwardly rolled his eyes. Of course concocting a ruse to steal from the Emperor of Nodol was no trouble to John’s conscience, but pretending to be a real doctor while trying to investigate a crime scene was outside his comfort zone. Contradictory man.

“Yes,” the angry policeman was saying, “but what are you doing here and why are you touching that body?”

“Mes excuses.” Basil gave him the same smile that had seemed to charm Lady Hooper earlier. “Nous voulons aider. Mr. Lestrade and I both drank the poison, you see, so I know that I can identify it for you.”

The man huffed and looked at Villard, but nodded. He called for someone to bring over the flask and he handed it over to Basil. “We found it in his room. The hotel here.” He gestured to the building behind them.

Basil quickly assessed the make of the flask, and promptly unscrewed the top to sniff. Then, because John was rigid next to him in disapproval, he stuck his tongue out on the rim and tasted it. John and Lestrade let out gasps of protest. It was a beautiful sound.

“C'est la même chose.” He grinned and turned back to the body.

“John?” The man was staring at him. “What do you think killed him?”

“What?” He asked sharply, his lips twisting angrily.

“You’re a doctor,” Basil drawled slowly, “tell me, what do you think killed him?”

John sighed and looked up to the sky as though praying for perseverance. He glanced at the officers for some sort of permission. The chief inspector shrugged and waved his hand in affirmation. John walked over stiffly. Apparently, his leg was starting to bother him again. Basil frowned.

John squatted down awkwardly and peered into what was left of the man’s face.

“Er, hard to tell in this light. But due to his color and the smell of vomit, I’d say… asphyxiation? From the poison.”

Basil hummed in agreement and continued to watch the ex-soldier. They met eyes and John sucked in a tight breath.

“So…” He furrowed his brows. “It wasn’t the fall that killed him. He was dead before he hit the ground. Someone… pushed him?” He glanced up. “From the hotel balcony?”

“Not quite, but nearly there.” Basil smiled excitedly. John looked like he was in shock for a moment, but tentatively smiled back.

Basil rocketed up from the pavement to speak to the two inspectors. “The flask and the poison are the same, but this man had a large dosage, unlike Mr. Lestrade and I, who happened to only share a few sips.”

Villard cocked his head to the side. “How can you be sure?”

Basil shook the empty flask. “Nothing left. And this man was a heavy drinker. His body was used to heavy amounts of liquor, so he hadn’t had qualms with swallowing down all of it. Lestrade and I didn’t feel the affects of the poison until nearly an hour later, so, the man couldn’t have known there was anything wrong with it until it was too late.”

“Hang on,” Lestrade interrupted, “How do you know he was a drinker?”

“Ah!” Basil bounded back to the body. “His finger tips. Did you notice? Swelled at the top. It’s a sure sign of a drunk. Look at his pocket watch. I’ll bet you anything there are scratches around the keyhole. Drunkards tend to have unsteady hands; whenever he went to wind the watch, he left marks as he tried to fit the key.”

The chief inspector looked quizzical. “Oui, all across the back.”

Basil smiled in triumph. “So, the man drinks the whole of the flask, and goes to bed. He has heavy hallucinations, similar to the ones Lestrade and I both shared that night, but far more deadly. He must have walked to the balcony in his sleep. The man asphyxiates and drops. So the murderer wasn’t with him. He knew when he recovered the flask from our quarters that it would incriminate him if he were found with it, but he took it anyway. There must have been something important about it, perhaps the poison itself was a rarity, and even the remainder of it after our drinks was better than none at all. Maybe the flask itself was important, but that can’t be it, because he gave it to this inconsequential fellow here.”

Basil squinted down again at the mangled victim. “Something scared our sailor. Something made him realize he couldn’t keep it after all. So he came across a fellow traveler on his way to Paris, noticed the man’s vice, and offered the flask to him. Told him he could keep it, disappeared into the city, and…”

Basil trailed off, and met John’s eyes. His mouth was hanging open slightly, eyebrows shot up in disbelief. When he noticed Basil’s gaze, his lips curled up, and something hot burst across Basil’s skin. John looked like he’d never seen something so marvelous as Basil standing there, lit sharply by the police’s lanterns. Just like that, he knew John would follow him if he asked.

“So you have reason to believe that this sailor that gave you the flask is here in Paris?”

“Indeed.” Basil wrenched his eyes from John’s.

The chief nodded to Villard. “Je vais envoyer une alerte pour sa description. Nous les avons de recherche Les Halles, Châtelet, Gare du Nord et Stalingrad.” The inspector agreed and turned toward the other gentlemen.

“Merci, messieurs. It would be a great help if you could come to the station with me so I might get an accurate report.”

Basil took his opportunity and abruptly swooned. John was on him swift as lightning, his strong arms circling his waist.  Basil looked weakly up through his eyelashes.

“Bas – Sherlock?” He cried frantically, “Sherlock, are you okay?”

“What’s the matter with him?” Villard cried.

“I think it’s all been too much. Hasn’t seen many dead bodies, you know.”

Basil frowned at that, but then again he had set himself up as the squeamish dandy, might as well milk it. He moaned pitifully and croaked out John’s name.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you, Sherlock.” John’s voice sounded strained. “I’ve got to take him to lie down. Do you think Lestrade could handle the report alone?”

Lestrade huffed. “I think we’ll be alright. Won’t we inspector?”

Villard seemed to hesitate, but agreed, and offered to get John and Basil a cab. He flitted away to the street, leaving Basil with his head cradled in John’s lap as Lestrade watched them silently. Basil restrained himself from pushing his head up into John’s soothing hand.

The cab arrived and John helped Basil in, thanking the inspector and promising to be of service if needed. He then clambered in after his patient and directed the cab driver to their hotel. Once they were safely away from the curb, Basil sat up again and righted his clothes.

“Driver!” He called up, “Changement de destination. Nous emmener à Les Halles.”

“Oui Monsieur.”

Basil leaned back and rested his fingers to his lips. It was a long shot, but if he were right, it would be brilliant. It would be more than brilliant; it would be perfect. He turned to smile excitedly at his companion, but found that the awe-inspired John from before had transformed into a frothing bulldog.

Basil sighed. “What?”

“You! I’m going to – What the _bloody hell_ is going on?”

The younger man frowned at him. “Haven’t you caught on? We’re going to go find the murderer.”

“What?!” John had an interesting little trough that appeared between his eyebrows when he got very angry. Basil sighed again. Honestly, he thought they were on the same page.

“Look, our sailor is in Paris right now, hiding from someone more dangerous than us. The captain told us that he was from Nodol, yes? So he must have heard about our train, or knew about it, because his first voyage out was our trip across the channel. He saw me observing him in the mess; he knew I could tell he was a criminal. I thought he gave Lestrade the flask to get rid of us, but he came back for it! Stole it from our bunks, and ran to Paris. Don’t you see?”

John only stared at him, absolutely bewildered.

“My God,” Basil breathed, “what is it like in your funny little head, it must be so relaxing.”

“Oi,” John growled dangerously.

Basil swallowed. “He’s after us, John. After you, after Lestrade, and after Sherlock Holmes. He’s military, plain as day in the way he holds himself, but not one of your honorable citizens, no. Our murderer is a free agent, dangerous and afraid. He was hired to go to Paris and kill someone, and someone important.”

“How can you know that, though?” John’s eyes were dark, but excited, his body ready to encounter danger.

“That poison was virtually undetectable in taste, elegant really. Why murder with something so expensive and rare when there are more straightforward ways to do it? No, it was meant for someone far more important and hard to access. It was practice. Dilute it in some liquor; see if it’s really going to do the job. He must have been prepared to use it on someone else like our unsuspecting victim back there, but when he saw us on the boat, heard Lestrade call me, Sherlock Holmes, well. Who could resist? A man hired to go assassinate the ex-emperor of Nodol, and he encounters his long lost brother along the way.”

John shook his head. “But hang on, when he snuck into our quarters to grab the flask, we were asleep. If he really wanted you dead, he could have finished the job then.”

Basil reached up and tugged on the handgrip above the window. He smiled enigmatically at his companion. “It’s all rather strange, isn’t it? I think he’s running scared. His boss must be very angry with him indeed.”

John frowned at the cab’s interior. He glanced up after a few moments. “You speak French.”

“What?” Basil’s mind stuttered at such an abrupt change of subject. “Well, yes. Always have.”

“Since that man found you in the woods near the palace?”

The younger man sighed and slumped against his seat. “Should’ve known you weren’t really asleep. Yes, since then.”

“And have you always been able to…” John seemed unsure how to phrase the next question, “see people the way you do? Notice their motivations, the details of their pasts?”

Basil’s hand had found its way into his pocket and he stroked his watch absently. “Well, yes, sort of. I look at a person, and I just notice things about them. The unsteadiness of a hand, spots of dirt on their shoes. It didn’t mean much to me until Wiggins taught me how to pick the right person to pocket. See a man’s wealth in his trousers; see a lady’s compassion in the flour beneath her nails. Know a drunk by the mark’s on the back of his pocket watch.”

“Any marks on yours?” John asked, pointing to Basil’s pocketed hand. He pulled the watch out, and handed it to John.

“Only a few from rough handling. I’ve had it a while.”

John glided his fingers over the inscription, but made no comment. He lifted it to his ear. “No ticking. It’s broken.” He pushed the top and frowned when the clasp didn’t open. “Jammed?”

Basil hummed in agreement. “Never have been able to get it open, the damn thing. Almost forced it once, but… I didn’t want it to be irreparable. It’s the only thing I have from… before.”

“And French.” John smiled.

“Et Français,” he returned.

The cab pulled to the side and stopped. “Les Halles,” the driver called out. They swiftly emerged after John had paid. Basil stood across the street, surveying the crowds.

“So,” John breathed next to him, “why did we come here?”

“Fancy a coffee, John?” Basil breezed by him to the nearby café, and took a seat at one of the tables outside. John looked irritated as he took the chair opposite.

“Want to keep me up on what’s going on Basil? Might be good for me to know what you’re looking for.”

The dark-haired man leaned forward excitedly, speaking low so others around them wouldn’t hear. “Our man is running on empty, John. He’s out of poison, and out of ideas. Now, an open market like this at night is ideal for criminal behavior. Pickpockets, black market traders, drug dealing, you name it, its happening here. Didn’t you hear the chief inspector? He wanted this place looked over for him.”

“So why not just leave it to the police, then?” John’s fingers were steady and his eyes alert. Basil thought he looked rather stunning when he was coursing with adrenaline. There was something particularly distracting about the throb of his pulse in the prominent artery along his neck.  

“Please.” Basil leaned back again, his eyes searching through the crowds. “They don’t know what they’re looking for.”

“And you do.” John sounded patronizing.

“Yes.” Basil said, giddiness making his voice tight, “I do.”

 

\--

 

“Quick, John!”

Basil’s voice echoed thunderously across from the other rooftop. John sucked in a breath and jumped as far as he could, landing with a skid. He bounded to his feet and was off again, following Basil as he reached the edge of the building and peered out to the street below.

“There!” He cried, pointing to the cab, and started to descend a rough iron ladder that plummeted to the alley below. John had thought he’d gotten over his fear of heights; nothing like a midnight chase through Paris to remind a fellow of his limits. Basil was on the ground quickly, and was halfway to the street by the time John had descended. He thanked his stars he was a quick runner. It was almost impossible to keep up with those long legs.

He watched Basil’s new coat flag out behind him as he rounded the corner, and wondered how it didn’t slow him down. But then maybe everyone of royal blood simply was born with innate knowledge of how to always look graceful. John tried to ignore the heaviness in his belly at that thought and pushed on.

After a few blocks, Basil began to slow his pace, having caught up with the car they were pursuing. John hadn’t seen the man enter the cab, but Basil seemed convinced it was their murderer’s, and had led them on this wild goose chase through the park and into the streets of Paris. The rush was delicious. John wished for the twentieth time he had his gun.

“Wait,” Basil whispered frantically, and gripped John’s wrist to stop him. They squashed themselves behind an empty newspaper booth, Basil keeping his hand tight around John’s arm as he watched the idling, cab. Then, suddenly he was off again, streaking across the road and reaching for the cab door. John followed, on alert, sure there would be a struggle.

He reached the cab just as Basil wrenched open the door and stared. Inside the cab was a tall, blonde man, clutching a paper bag, and looking absolutely terrified.

“Qu'ai-je fait? Qu'ai-je fait?” He cried, looking between the two in confusion. The cab driver was screaming out at them, but Basil just stared, utterly frozen in confusion at his miscalculation.

“Er,” John panted out, “sorry about that – er, désolé. We thought you were… someone else.”

“Appel à un policier!” The man screeched at the driver. “Au secours! Police!”

Basil snapped out of his reverie and backed away from the cab, shutting the door, and watching it speed down the road. John glanced at him.

“Better get out of here.”

“Ready when you are,” Basil said, and they ran off again. A light drizzle began to fall, making the streetlights fuzzy and roads slick. John slowed his jog as they approached a large bridge that stretched over the Seine.

“Pont Neuf,” Basil called over to him, and directed them around and beneath the bridge to the pavement along the river. He leaned up against the walls, panting and trying to regain his breath. John slumped next to him, unable to control his sudden giggling.

“That was the most ridiculous thing, I’ve ever done,” he panted out.

“And you fought in the trenches,” Basil remarked with a deep chuckle.

John bubbled with laughter again. “That wasn’t just me,” he breathed and looked over his shoulder to smile at his friend.

Small droplets of water had gathered in Basil’s dark curls, and in the yellow light of the streetlamps, they reflected an otherworldly aura around his young face. Basil’s face was flushed and brilliant, and John thought it might be the best damn thing he’s ever seen in his life. It made him want to run a hundred more miles, track down a thousand more criminals. Moonlight and danger was a language he’d known since childhood, and Basil understood it, spoke it fluently, shared it with John.

The other man’s smile had faded as John stared at him, and something like hesitancy was starting to bloom on his face. He opened his mouth. “John, I –” But John couldn’t bare it, didn’t want to think about it, so he shoved his hand beneath those curls, and tugged. Basil gasped and bent, but John was already surging upward against his chest to propel him against the wall. His eyes were blown in the dim light, and heavy-lidded as he took short breaths through his lips. John lifted his chin and pressed his mouth against them. He held them there for a moment, letting out a long breath through his nose and then backing his face away again. Slowly he ran his gloved hand down Basil’s cheek, keeping his eyes on that mouth and then maneuvered upward, tugging his neck down and pressing his hips tight to Basil’s thighs.

He briefly thought about how he’d never kissed anyone as tall as Basil before, at least not while standing up. John nudged Basil’s legs open with his knee and helped him bend them as he wrapped an arm around his waist to support him. The man accommodated him and scrunched lower against the wall as John pressed forward and stuck his lips to Basil’s neck. He let out a strangled breath and bent down to claim John’s lips again, gasping as John pulled at his lower lip with his teeth.

He chased John’s mouth hungrily, accidently clicking teeth against teeth in his eagerness. They both reared back at the sharp pain for a moment, but quickly recovered, Basil’s hands coming up to cup John’s face and lick into his mouth. John let out a tight moan when their tongues connected. Without thinking he ground his rapidly hardening cock up towards Basil’s exposed crotch. They both groaned at the contact, and began sucking at each other in earnest. Basil started to rut desperately, letting out tiny whines between nips, noises that went straight to John’s cock. He tried to steady Basil as he surged back with each thrust, but had to abandon his mouth after a while to suck at his throat and jaw. The younger man threw his head back against the hard stone and let out a low moan, positively arching off the wall.

John froze, suddenly very aware of where they were. He opened his eyes and glanced around the small, darkened area beneath the bridge. A ways off, he saw a couple walking toward the bridge. Basil was tugging at John’s jaw, trying to bring him up for another kiss, but the older man pulled away, steadying himself.

“Basil we have to stop.”

His eyes flickered open, assessing John’s face. Something he saw made him clench his jaw and skid his back up the wall, standing at full height. John cleared his throat awkwardly, running a hand down his neck.

“Er, right, so. That was…” He didn’t know what to say. John glanced up at Basil’s face. It was completely shuttered; he almost looked bored. If John hadn’t felt his erection, he would have doubted the man’s interest in the entire event.

He had to say something. Explain himself.

“Look, Basil, the last few days have been exciting.”

“Exciting.” The repetition was uncharacteristic. Its tone was hollow, its sound low and rough. John suddenly became aware of the chill in the night air.

“Yes, er, it’s been, well frankly it’s been the best three days of my damn life, and, well.”

Basil was watching him closely, eyes flicking from his shoulders to his clenched fists at his side.

“It’s alright, John.” He said.

John looked up questioningly.

He sighed and gave him a slight smile. “We weren’t going to keep up this charade for very long, were we?”

John tried a smile back, but it felt strained. “I’m rubbish at all this.”

Basil pushed off the wall and put a hand on his shoulder. “You could be worse off. Imagine if two crazy men stopped your cab at the middle of the night to assault you.”

John snorted, grinning up at Basil.

“Qu'ai-je fait? Qu'ai-je fait?” Basil wrinkled his nose as he gave his best impression of the poor Frenchman. They chuckled together for a moment, both eager to be relieved of the tension. As their laughter died off, John felt his heart ache. This is what he wanted now, this laughter, this high of shared adrenaline, the two of them against the rest of the world. But he couldn’t; he couldn’t have it.  

“So,” he breathed, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “what do we do now?”

Basil glanced beyond John to the river. “It was a long shot we’d find him tonight. More than likely he’ll regroup possibly to plan an attack on the Emperor. We’ll have to speak to Villard again. Tomorrow morning we can…”

He stopped talking when he saw the puzzlement on John’s face.

“No, not with the murderer, Basil, that’s not what I meant. Not really.”

Basil’s brows wrinkled together, then cleared in surprise. “Oh. Well I – there’s a chance we could start with the make of the watch. I’ve done some study on ones made before the Great War, and it could be something to go on.”

John’s mouth popped open for just a moment as it dawned on him what Basil was asking him. “You want to…investigate the pocket watch?”

Basil fidgeted. “Yes, well while we’re in Paris, it’d make sense, before heading back.”

“You think we ought to go back to Nodol… together.”

He looked so young, John thought as Basil looked everywhere but him, so young and so unsure.

“Well. I know you’re not overly fond of the capitol, but I’ve some ideas about where we might live. I know this woman with access to all sorts of accommodations –”

John threw up a hand in an urgent sign for Basil to stop talking. He peered up into his eyes; desperate that what he wanted to say would register.

“Basil, we can’t.” He shook his head, sadness making his voice tight. “We can’t go back. Not yet, we’ve… we’ve come all this way, for you to see the Emperor.”

Basil turned immediately on his heel, bursting out of the darkness beneath the bridge and heading upwards toward the main road. John called out his name as he followed, trying to keep pace as Basil stormed away.

“Basil!”

“Shut up, John.”

“You _have_ to listen to me. Lady Hooper will find us a way to the Emperor, you don’t have to worry about that –”

Basil propelled his legs faster, ducking his head into the collar of his new coat. He swiveled down the road, searching for a cab.

“Christ, Basil, just listen to me for a moment.”

“Why should I?” He spat out.

John gripped him by the coat and spun him. Basil tried to twist away, but John was faster, holding on, teeth grit. Basil’s eyes were flinty black in the overhead streetlights.

 “You _have_ to meet with him.”

The younger man’s control snapped. He pushed John, shoving him against a wrought iron fence, teeth bared. “I don’t _have_ to do anything,” he growled.

John’s pulse jumped, but he stood his ground, glaring up from where he was pushed against the bars. “Basil, hear me out. I know it was all a game before, but it’s not anymore. It’s real. You _are_ the Grand Duke Sherlock.”

“How could you know that?” Basil roared.

“Because I was there!” John bellowed back and Basil flinched. He slumped against him, the last of his fight gone out at his confession.

“I was there.” He let out a tired sigh. “The boy, the one you remembered. Who opened the door in the wall, who pulled you into the pond. That… that was me, Basil.”

Basil blinked, trying to process what he’d heard. John heaved in startled breaths.

“It was me, Basil. And I should’ve told you, should’ve said something, but I didn’t know. And now after all this…”

Slowly, Basil backed away, uncontrollable trembling suddenly seizing him. John reached out a hand to Basil’s arm, but the younger man flinched away, turning toward the street. Two men were watching them from across it, their cigarettes burning red in the night.

Basil looked up and saw a cab approaching. Immediately he held out his hand, and the car stopped along the curb. John followed after him, but one look at Basil’s pale face and he backed away, closing the door. He saw Basil slump down in his seat, burying his face in his coat, just as the cab rolled away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shamelessly translates French through Google...


	10. I'm Probably About as Stubborn As You Are

Something cracked above his head and John careened up, clutching his sheets, swiveling around to locate the source of danger. Lestrade chuckled from where he was sitting on the bed.

“Good morning,” he drawled out. He unfolded the newspaper and pointed to a grainy picture on page five. The caption was in French, but John recognized the smashed in head. He scanned the article and saw Villard’s name.

“Still searching for the murderer?” He asked, slowly getting out of bed. He winced slightly; soreness from the chase last night shot pain up his legs. Greg eyed him speculatively.

“Yeah.” He was still smirking. “Interesting case, really. It’s amazing how Basil put all those clues together. Villard was really impressed with him.”

 _Basil._ John clenched his left hand as he remembered the night before, Basil’s tongue brushing his, the needy sounds he’d made as John had latched onto his neck. He closed his eyes, willing the memories away.

When he turned to scan the room, Lestrade was watching at him with a sharp smirk. “He’s not here. Left earlier on a walk. Said he needed to think.”

John sighed and nodded, looking around for his clothes. When he’d reached their hotel that night, Basil had already bundled himself on the cot, feigning sleep as John had stripped and collapsed into bed. Mostly he’d tossed and turned, trying to work out what had happened between their breathless kisses under the bridge and Basil’s abrupt departure.

 _Sherlock._ He tried to remind himself. It was Sherlock Holmes who he’d been passionately pressed against, a duke of Nodol. The man whose royal brother was looking for him; the whole reason they’d come to Paris in the first place.

“So,” Lestrade cleared his throat. “Where were you, then? Last night. Thought Basil was having a bit of a swoon.”

John glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, he wanted to… get some air. See the city.”

“Right.”

“Yeah, we found this café. Sat for a while.”

“You and Basil went to a café.”

John looked at him sharply. “That’s what I said.”

Lestrade sighed and ran a hand down his face. “John, look. You’re my mate, alright? When you told me about this plan, I said I’d help, and I have. But I’m not an idiot.”

John finished the buttons on his waistcoat, and reached for his jacket. “Is there tea? I’m gasping for a cuppa.”

“John.”

“Greg.” John finally turned to face him, clutching at the collar of his rumpled jacket. “It’s not what you think.”

“You’re gone on him, mate.”

“I’m not!” John caught himself and lowered his voice. “I am not. He’s… interesting. And I admit, there’s… attraction there, but…”

“But you think you have to see through this ridiculous plan.”

John gave up on trying to dress, and sat down on the bed again. “It’s not about that anymore. At first, I thought it wouldn’t be so bad, if Lady Hooper wasn’t convinced…”

“But she was.”

John looked up, surprised. “You spoke to her again?”

Lestrade nodded, reaching in his pocket and taking out a letter. “I went back last night, tried to convince her to let us have an audience with His Majesty. I mean it was your story that cracked her; I know it was. Smart of you to tell Basil about it. But even with that, she was sure he wouldn’t see us. This morning, though, she sent this.”

He handed John the letter.

 

_Mon Cher Monsieur Lestrade,_

_I’m so sorry your visits yesterday were so brief. I hope you’ll call on me again while you are in France. Tonight, His Highness the Emperor and I are going to La Opéra de Paris. An Italian company is putting on Aida, a favorite of His Majesty’s. We would not miss it._

_À Bientôt,_

_MH_

John glanced up from the letter into Lestrade’s eager face. “You think we ought to go to the opera?”

The other man nodded as he tucked the correspondence back into his jacket pocket. “She wouldn’t have mentioned it if it was not an invitation. We may have an opportunity to be introduced there.”

John frowned, worrying the fabric of his jacket between his fingers. “We can’t be sure.”

“It’s a chance. But John,” He peered up into his friend’s face. “We don’t have to do this. If you and Basil want to give it up…”

“We can’t, Greg.” And John despaired at the strain in his voice. “I didn’t… The story, I didn’t tell him.”

“What?”

“I didn’t tell him about that night. He _remembered_ it. He remembered me dragging them to that bridge. It’s all real; _he’s_ real. The real thing, Greg.”

Lestrade stared at him in shock. “You mean…”

“Yes.”

“But that’s… I mean he’s just a...”

“An orphan from Nodol. Among hundreds of orphans who survived the revolution. Who wanted to get to Paris to figure out his past and heard we had exit visas.”

Lestrade ran a hand through his graying hair. “Shit. He didn’t know. He didn’t know, and here we are. But… he knows now?” He looked up questioningly.

John nodded sadly. Lestrade sighed. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“We have to go then. Tonight, we have to be sure the Emperor sees him. He’ll finally have found his family. And you…”

John stood up, wrenched on his jacket, and thought about the smell gunpowder and sound of boots on hard mud.

“I’ll walk out his life forever.”

 

\--

 

John had never been to an opera before. The house was certainly grand; he tried not to gape at the golden carvings and magnificently painted ceiling. He stood in the foyer, feeling dwarfed by the grand staircase and throng of wealthy people as they climbed it. A parade of fashionably short-skirted woman glittered past him, their dresses clicking in crystals. He blushed as one gave him an appraising look.

“These French women are something else, aren’t they?” Lestrade had appeared next to him.

John gave him a weak smile. “Not really my cup of tea, I suppose.”

“No, not really.” Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “You sure about this still, mate? Maybe you should talk to Basil. Tell him.”

John opened his mouth to tell Greg to piss off when a deep voice from behind them said, “Tell me what?”

The two men whirled around to see Basil standing behind them, dashingly clad in the brand new tuxedo they’d purchased that afternoon. John remembered instantly why he’d decided not to follow along on the shopping excursion, sending along his measurements instead of being tortured with the vision of Basil in a perfectly fitted suit. The man was devastating, curls coiffed and parted, making him look years older. John swallowed hard when Basil met his eyes.

His face was still as carefully blank as this morning when he’d returned to the hotel, explaining that he’d been by the police station to report his belief that the murderer intended to threaten the ex-emperor of Nodol. He’d treated John with cold civility for the rest of the day, barely saying a word of protest to the plan to attend the opera, except a desire to buy his own formalwear. John felt his chest constrict, as those pale eyes stared blankly back at him, and thought that if it was his last night with this remarkable man, he could at least ease the tension between them.

He straightened his back and held out a hand to Basil, smiling as genially as he could manage. “How good you look tonight, Your Grace.”

Basil blinked at him. “Oh.” He considered John’s offered hand for a moment, and then shook it, a tentative smile growing on his face. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, you’re both absolutely gorgeous,” Lestrade said, “Now don’t forget the plan. Lady Hooper will meet us in front of the Emperor’s box after the curtain drops.”

“Yes,” Basil drawled, “Thank you, Lestrade. We aren’t complete imbeciles.”

The older man shot him a glare as they ascended the stairs. “Well, I don’t know when you two will run off without so much as a word, now do I?”

Basil blushed at that and looked away with a slight pout. Lestrade only smirked at John’s disapproving look and led them to their seats in the balcony. There was an awkward moment when Lestrade took his seat in the row behind the other two, leaving Basil to ungracefully flop down next to John, looking like he’d rather fling himself off the balcony then spend the next few hours sitting beside the man he’d been kissing rather passionately the night before.

As the curtain rose, John scanned the boxes, looking for Lady Hooper. He spotted her eventually, prettily dressed a rose colored gown. The box looked rather full; a dark-haired lady fanned herself elegantly beside two gentlemen, rapt on the drama happening on stage. Just behind them he made out the pale face of the Emperor, stiff in his seat. John turned his head to point them out to Basil and felt the young man jolt as his lips came close to his ear.

“The Emperor and Lady Hooper,” he whispered perhaps a little more intimately than was necessary. It was worth seeing Basil’s cheeks pink as he looked to where John pointed. He nodded tightly and swallowed, glancing back at the stage.

Instinctively John was deeply pleased with Basil’s obvious attraction to him. The knowledge of their mutual desire made him dizzy; it was difficult to pull away from Basil’s personal space when he longed to rest his lips beneath the man’s hairline. But the rational side of his brain kicked in when he saw Basil’s frown, and he felt shame build up in his belly. One look at the man in a beautiful tux and he’d forgotten his morning determination, pushed aside in a wave of lust.

He couldn’t help the tempting thought – if he asked, Basil might run away with him. Would it be so hard to convince him? Last night, beneath the bridge, it seemed easy to forget the world, forget Nodol and the Holmes’. How freeing to be just John and Basil, living off breathless chases hand in hand. Would they be happy, making their way in the world together, not a farthing to their name?

Basil was twisting his something in hands fretfully. John glanced down and saw his gloved thumb wipe across the dulled inscription. _For Paris._ All at once, he was reminded of his purpose. This man, this remarkable, breathtaking, lonely young man, deserved his answers. He was no longer a trivial piece of John’s ill planned con for a monarch’s reward money. Sherlock Holmes sat beside him, anxious to meet his brother, to be reunited with his family. What was John in this princes’ mind? A distraction, a temptation surely, but not more important than the life he would lead if given the chance to prove his identity as the son of the late Siger Holmes.

It made his chest ache with some feeling he couldn’t quite face, but the resolution eased his thoughts. Slowly he reached over and took Basil’s hand in his, linking their fingers and leaning in.

“Don’t be worried,” he breathed softly, “it’ll be fine.”

Basil’s face was full of something John didn’t quite understand, but after a moment he let out a deep breath and nodded.

“Thank you,” he murmured and squeezed John’s hand.

Somehow, it felt like goodbye.

 

\--

 

As the curtain fell, John stood and straightened his jacket. He glanced at Lestrade who was snoring in his seat, and shook his head amused. Basil smiled too and shrugged.

“I guess it’s time,” he said as he stood fluidly. The awkwardness was gone and replaced with a sort of quiet determination that sat well on his royal-born shoulders. John nodded and followed him out.

Silently they rounded the corridors, and made their way to Emperor’s box. Just before he knocked on the door, Basil’s hand stopped him.

“Wait, John, I –” He was worrying his lower lip in his teeth; the same young look as the night before was splashed across his face.

“Yes?” _Ask me, ask me, ask me,_ his traitorous brain chanted.

Basil blew out a breath. “I just wanted to, thank you, I suppose. You’ve brought me all this way and… well whatever happens, I’d like us to be friends.”

John stared at him. “Friends.” Disappointment flooded through his body.

“Er, yes well. If you’d like to. Be friends, that is.”

John cleared his throat and looked Basil straight in the eye. “I’d be honored to be the friend of the Grand Duke Sherlock.”

The young man smiled faintly. “Now.” John pulled at his jacket. “I’ll go announce you properly.”

One knock on the door, and it was whipped open. A large man squinted down at him. “Que voulez-vous?” I barked out.

John held his ground. “Je suis un ami de Madame Hooper.”

The man glanced over him once and then looked behind him to a young woman with a black book in her hands. She scanned him for a moment and then disappeared behind the curtain that separated the room from the opera box. After a few seconds, Lady Hooper appeared, her eyes wide with apprehension.

“Mon chérie!” She proclaimed, and kissed both his cheeks. He stiffened in surprised but guessing her game, returned the embrace. The lady pulled back and stared at him for a moment, and then glanced at the young woman standing beside them.

“Anthea,” she said, “do you remember all those uniformed men from across the Channel that used to try and woo us during the war? How ghastly some of them were! But John, here, he was one of my favorites. Come all the way to Nodol just to see me! Très romantique, non?”

Anthea stared at them unmoved. Lady Hooper sighed longingly and ran her finger along his collar. “To be so young and admired again! Mais, c’est la vie!”

She patted his arm and looked to Anthea again. “I would so like to introduce him to my cousin, Anthea. Do you think you could call him over?”

The other woman looked unsure, but nodded, escaping behind the curtain again. Lady Hooper smiled at John and looked behind him to the man guarding the door. She leaned in surreptitiously.

“Where are Greg and Sherlock? I thought they would be with you.”

John took her hands in his as though a wooing lover. “The Grand Duke is just outside. Lestrade fell asleep during the opera and we left him.”

She rolled her eyes at that but smiled. “It is probably better with only two. You must be quick,” she warned.

The curtain shot open and a tall, pale man emerged, looking down at John’s close proximity with his cousin with a sneer. Without ceremony, John bowed, naturally intimidated in the presence of his long ago monarch.

“Is this whom you would have me meet, dear cousin,” Emperor Mycroft pronounced.

The young woman nodded meekly. “Yes, Your Majesty. Monsieur John Watson, my friend from Nodol.”

“An officer of the war,” the man said, looking over him with cold eyes, “A loyal fighter against the rebellion. Once a servant of the castle.” A judging brow rose up. “What is it you want from me, Mr. Watson?”

Apparently the unsettling ability to indentify a person in seconds was hereditary. John summoned his courage. “Your Majesty, I have come all the way from the capitol in hopes of reunited you with your brother, Grand Duke Sherlock. He’s waiting just outside to meet you.”

Immediately the bodyguard seized him, and Lady Hooper gasped as she was wrenched backwards by Anthea. John twisted away from the stronger man’s grasp instinctively.

“What’s the meaning of this?” He cried. The Emperor only stared at him in cold judgment. Lady Hooper was blubbering behind them, trying to explain to the Emperor, but he quieted her, glaring at John.

“Sir, you have been misled. You cannot have found the Grand Duke. I suggest you cut off all communication with my cousin and leave immediately.”

John shook his head and confusion. “I am not trying to mislead, you must believe me! He is just outside the door, if you would–”

The Emperor turned to look at Anthea who hurried to the door and locked it. John glanced back in despair. “You don’t understand!” He gritted out between his teeth, “He’s come all this way to find you! Please, I beg of you, Your Majesty, to speak with him.”

Just behind them the curtain rustled, and a man emerged, concern etched on his face. “What is all this?” He turned to Lady Hooper, draping an arm across her trembling shoulders. “What’s the matter, Mycroft? Who is this man?”

The Emperor turned toward the speaker and grimaced. “Another con artist after my money, of course. He says he’s found my brother.”

The tall, handsome man smiled widely at the monarch. “I can’t believe it, really? Haven’t you called off the search yet? I thought everyone in Nodol knew.”

John felt apprehension prickle in his belly. Lady Hooper was sending him apologetic looks from where she was cradled in the other man’s arms. He was tall, with dark-haired curls shorn short, dressed sharply in a well-made suit. His blue eyes twinkled in amusement at the sight of John being held back by the bodyguard like he was a particularly skittish horse.

The young man sighed and glided over to John. “Allow me to introduce myself, then. I am Sherlock Holmes, son of the late Siger Holmes, Emperor of Nodol. I’m sorry you’ve not heard of my reuniting with my brother. It _was_ in the papers, but perhaps you don’t read French?”

John was frozen in shock. He stared at the young man, tall and regal, aristocracy radiating from his every pore. John looked to Lady Hooper in bewilderment, but she was staring sadly at the carpet.

“I don’t understand,” he managed weakly, “it can’t be –”

“It’s true,” Sherlock Holmes laughed, and glanced back at his cousin’s defeated stance. “She’s a brilliant actress, isn’t she? Usually very good at letting down the amateurs, but the particularly stubborn swindlers always end up finding their way to Mycroft. Did she set this whole ‘chance meeting’ up for you? Well, we have to weed out the disloyal somehow.”

John looked toward the Emperor, and saw condemnation there beneath the rigid control. At what lengths would a man whose family was betrayed and murdered before his eyes go to protect those who were left? As Nodol stewed in bitterness, its abandoned monarch had hid. But what secrets went deeper than the public knowledge of the young emperor and lost duke?

“No.” He stared defiantly on. “What reason you have for this, I can’t know, but the real Sherlock _is_ out there.” He pointed to the door. “You must speak with him!”

Lady Hooper whimpered. The Emperor flicked his hand and the bodyguard gripped John, pulling him out the door and summoning another guard to help. As John struggled, he twisted around to find Basil, but the young man was nowhere to be seen. The few remaining members of the audience watched as the two guards flung John down the front steps of the opera house. He unsteadily regained his footing, shooting them nasty looks, before looking about frantically for Lestrade or Basil.

He saw near the corner of the building the edge of a familiar coat, and he ran after it, calling out Basil’s name.

“Wait!” He cried, reaching out to stop the man. Basil turned around, and glanced around them. Quickly he pulled John to the side of the building where it was less occupied.

“Basil,” John began to frantically explain, but the other man just shook his head.

“I heard. Be quiet, would you? Or you’ll draw more attention to yourself.”

John nodded and sucked in air, thankful that Basil was being so rational.

“Have you seen Lestrade?”

“No.”

“We’ll have to look for him. Time to regroup and try a different angle. He’ll need to talk to Lady Hooper – we need more information. Obviously a lot more going on here then meets the eye.”

“Obviously.” Basil said, but his eyebrows were drawn together, unsure. “John, I was thinking.”

“Aren’t you always?” John smiled giddily.

“Yes, well.” Basil looked a little thrown at that. “It’s just that, this is our chance.”

“Chance?”

“To run, John. To get away.”

“But.” He felt his pulse pick up. “You’re him. You’re the Duke. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to live with your family?”

Basil looked away, his hands deep in his coat pockets. “I’m not sure I do.”

John stared at him, and he suddenly understood.

“You knew,” he breathed. “All this time, you _knew_ you were Sherlock.”

The younger man looked at him sharply. “No, John. I didn’t know. I had my… suspicions, but it wasn’t until we were at Lady Hooper’s yesterday, that it was confirmed.”

“But you kissed me!” John yelled. Hot anger whipped through him. “Was that even real?”

Basil pushed John, down the alleyway, into the dark shadows by the back stage doors. He cupped John’s face in his hands, digging his fingers in around his jaw. “Please, John.” He pressed his lips to the man’s forehead fiercely.

“Please,” he whispered into his skin. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know it was you. The boy who saved us, how perfect, how perfect you are.”

John trembled, arms wrapping around Basil’s waist. He thumped his head against the man’s chest angrily. “We _can’t_ Basil. We _can’t_.”

“Why not?” The man’s piercing eyes were begging him, roving over John’s face for some acquiescence. “We could solve crimes together, just like last night. We’d be free. I know you’ve thought about it John, _please._ ”

It wasn’t fair. Never had such temptation fallen into his hands. Never had John wanted something so fiercely, so all-consuming. Something was pricking around his eyes and his throat was tight, but he shook his head, slowly, determinedly.

“You can’t run from who you are, Basil. I won’t let you. It’s not fair to the Emperor, it’s not fair to yourself.”

Basil’s face turned to agony, then to stone. He pulled away.

“The Emperor,” he spat out, something like a sneer twisting his face, “no doubt he would be very grateful for your grand service for Nodol. I’m sure he’d pay quite the price once he learns the truth.”

“What?” John’s brain was too slow; he wasn’t prepared for so much so quickly. “No Basil –”  

“God, I’ve been a fool, haven’t I? So stupid. From the very beginning. It’s always been about the money.”

“No!” John reached out, tugging Basil’s hand. The man was clutching his watch. “It’s about this.” He pressed the man’s palm into the metal, begging him to understand. “It’s about reconciling your past like I was never able to. Please, Basil, _Sherlock_ , you have to see that.”

“Don’t call me that!” Basil yelled and without so much as a flinch, flung the pocket watch to the ground, and stormed away toward the opera house courtyard.

John was stuck, bewildered and hurt by Basil’s assumptions. He stood by and watched as the young man clambered into a taxi and drove off. Slowly he reached down and picked up the discarded watch. It had a dull gleam in the orange glow of streetlights.

He looked up and just descending the stairs a little ways off was the Emperor, speaking solemnly with Anthea as she took brisk notes in her black book. John saw the car that was waiting for them at the edge of the pavement. Without a second thought, he stole quickly toward it. The driver had his back turned from the street, so John effortlessly took him down, butting the back of his head and easing him out of the road. He donned the man’s cap and sat behind the wheel.

They approached the vehicle and Anthea opened the door for the Emperor, sending John scandalized looks for not doing so himself. As soon as the man had eased in, John whipped away from the curb, leaving his secretary in absolute shock in front of the pavement.

“I have no qualms leaping from this vehicle,” the Emperor said, his drawl from before gone tight with tension. John turned his head and smiled at the man.

“No need for that, Your Majesty, you can leave anytime after you’ve talked with your brother.”

His eyes went wide. “You absolute fool! Don’t you know that you’re compromising the entire safety of your own country!”

“I’m trying to save your family!” John called back as he made a hairpin turn and no doubt causing a traffic jam. The hotel wasn’t far. Basil must be there by now, if only to collect his clothes.

_Please let him still be there._

“I have no idea what idiot convictions have gotten into your head, but I hope you understand that you could be severely punished for this.”

There it was, the hotel rising up at the top of the street as they barreled closer. John slowly eased the cab to a stop and leapt out. The Emperor sat very still in the back, watching John circle to the car door. John wrenched it open and glared at the man.

“I’m not an idiot. I’m trying to tell you the truth. That man up there is your brother, and he’s slipping away under your nose as you play out your politics.”

The Emperor rolled his eyes. “Here.” John jammed his hands into his pocket and held out the watch. “Do you recognize this?”

Instantly the monarch reached out, cradling the metal thing in his hands with unconcealed shock. “Where did you get this?” He breathed. A pale finger pressed against the inscription.

“It’s his,” John said, “He came here to Paris to find you, Your Majesty. Please, don’t let him leave.”

For a frightening moment, John thought he’d got it wrong. He thought the police would come and arrest him, and the Emperor would drive off, never knowing Basil was the person he’d been searching for. But then a sharp nod of the head, and the man pushed past John onto the pavement.

“Show me the room,” he commanded.


	11. Peppermint?

Basil didn’t have much to pack. He’d stripped himself of the beautifully tailored tuxedo the moment he’d made it to the room, liking the symbolism somehow of the evening’s formal wear disregarded and trod upon. He couldn’t bear the idea of keeping it, so it remained on the floor. He had his old coat, of course, and the sleepwear Lestrade had lent him, and the ragged uniform from the orphanage that still smelled like cigarettes and mildew. It was worth having one change of clothes, he supposed, so he emptied the rest of Lestrade and John’s things from the bag and buckled it shut.

He pulled on the ill-fitting outfit John had bought him in Brighthaven, laced up his old shoes, and was just pulling on his new coat when a knock came from the door. Damn. He’d hoped to escape without another altercation. Basil considered the window as an escape route, but there was at least twenty feet to the ground, and he had no time to prepare a scaling rope.

Instead he just let out a frustrated sigh and yelled back, “Go away, John.”

There was silence behind the door, and for a few minutes Basil thought he might get away after all, until he heard the hinges squeak. The young man groaned and looked upward, asking the cracked ceiling what he did to deserve this. Wasn’t it enough that he’d flayed himself open for John twice now and been rejected? Did he really need it a third time?

“Please, I really don’t want to have to –” He flicked his haughty eyes down and stopped talking when instead of John, he met the gaze of the Emperor. Shocked, Basil could only stare at the man. He was so much younger than he imagined somehow, couldn’t be more than thirty, but something in the appraising lines along his brow, the sharp glint of his eyes, seemed ancient, and achingly familiar.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out suddenly, “I thought you were –”

“I know exactly who you thought I was. The question is who are you?”

The voice was just as tinny, just as smug, albeit deeper than in memory. Basil found himself bowing belatedly, noticing the frayed fibers of the carpet while frantically trying to control the mess of his mind attic. The sudden awareness of his past in the last forty-eight hours still sent his focus careening and his head pounding. It was best to focus on something trivial, less dripping in feelings and more controlled. He cleared his throat.

“We were hoping you could tell us,” he said a bit forcefully. The Emperor’s eyes flicked to where Basil was clenching his hands. Brilliant. Being observant was a family trait. How could he have forgotten that?

 

_“You have to learn how to control it, Sherlock. You can’t just spout out whatever comes into your head about a person. Teach yourself what it means, and only share it if it’s relevant.”_

 

Basil’s head pounded.

“I know enough.” The man was scanning the hotel room now, taking in clues about their travels no doubt. “John Watson, of course, is well known to me. Or his scheme with that old palace guard at least is. Audition actors and teach them all about the royal ways. A game I’ve seen played out a hundred times. You can imagine the tedium.”

 

_“I’m bored, Mycroft.” “Life is dull, little brother. You ought to get used to it.”_

 

“You’re here. What did he say to convince you?”

The Emperor squinted at him. “He stole my car.”

Basil couldn’t help the laugh that erupted from him. The image of John hijacking the royal transport was too hysterical to resist. The lengths that man would go to. Emperor Mycroft seemed extremely affronted.

“Yes, rather amusing. He nearly endangered the whole of Nodol tonight, just so I might speak with you, so here I am. Make it worth my while, won’t you?”

And here was Basil’s chance. It would be easy to lie, to admit he’d merely wanted a ticket to Paris, that he hadn’t known the determination those ridiculous men had to see their con to the end. The words were forming in his mouth, ready to burst forth and give him freedom when he saw it. Just a flicker, maybe a few seconds long, but realization flooded through him, and he knew it was too late. The Emperor was not to be deceived. He’d already deduced, he already knew. Perhaps Basil looked too much like his father, perhaps there was an identifying mark somewhere on his skin, but the Emperor recognized him.

There was no escape. John had delivered his duke and had won. Basil glanced over at his older brother, a stranger, thoroughly familiar, and felt something like defeat tinged in relief settle on his shoulders.

“I don’t understand what you expect me to prove,” he said finally. “You already know enough.”

Emperor Mycroft pushed his lips together and looked toward the bag lying closed on the bed. “You were going away.”

Basil’s felt confused. “Of course.”

“Without Mr. Watson and Mr. Lestrade, presumably.”

“We’re… no longer obligated to each other.”

The Emperor hummed in agreement and slowly took a seat on the settee. His hand disappeared into his jacket pocket and emerged again, holding up a golden object. Basil’s heart quickened as he reached for it immediately.

“You recognize it, I presume.”

Basil’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Of course, it’s mine. Why would John give it to you?”

The Emperor’s face was observant, keen, wistful even. He almost looked like –

Oh. His head ached, reeled, galloped ahead of him.

 

_“Quite clever isn’t it? It’s to help you explore more properly when I’m away. When I’ve come back, you can share with me what you’ve learned.”_

_“Mycroft, you’ve managed to give something rather good!”_

 

He plunged his finger down on the top, forgetting himself. It stayed resolutely shut, mocking the memory, unyielding in its mystery. But when Basil looked up, he knew his theory was correct.

“The magnification glass. I’ve broken it.” It was all he could manage; something seemed to be lodged in his throat.

“Oh Sherlock,” came Mycroft’s answer and he stood up fluidly, to place a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder. For a moment they stood there, still and quietly, the equal response of grief and joy in reunion strung between them. Basil shook his head finally, too overwhelmed to deal with the chaos threatening to cut him off from the present.

“But the actor?”

“Surely you’ve worked that out by now.”

“The threat on your life. But the added security would have been enough. What purpose would faking our reunion do?”

Mycroft slowly extracted his hand back to his side. Fear and irritation was edging into his usually controlled expression.

“It was a well thought out plan, really, until your friend came along. Years in the making, dear brother. Men have lost their lives to ensure it would all go accordingly, and just as we were about to execute the final stage...” He shook his head like a disappointed mother. “John Watson. We should have kept a clearer eye on him. Who knew stolen medical equipment and an ill-conceived con would up heave such a monumental conclusion?”

Basil felt dread prick at his belly. “Please, don’t have him killed. He’s… my friend.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow went up infinitesimally, but Basil knew he’d given himself away. “He’s under custody for his own safety. But we’ll spare him, of course.”

And Basil knew his part as soon as the words were uttered. “In return, I’ll do as you wish. Help to repair the damage.”

Something rippled up into his brother’s fading hairline, and Mycroft’s hand found his arm again. “Do you remember much?”

A throbbing in his skull. “Bits and pieces. Father’s death.”

_Long live Emperor Mycroft Holmes._

“Then you remember enough to see what needs to be done.” Mycroft paused but then deciding something continued. “We have known for quite some time now that Moriarty is still alive.”

Basil felt alarm sweep through him at the name, almost instinctively before he’d connected the dots. “You were trying to lure him to Paris.”

“We have for some time. He was in Germany for a long while, then reunited with his old servant, Sebastian Moran. We know he’s here now, waiting for the right opportunity. We thought tonight he might strike.”

Basil was filled with manic energy in seconds, looking around frantically for the paper he’d seen John peering at earlier that morning. He grinned as he found it, the grainy photo of the crime scene luridly displayed across the front page.

“I may have some information about that.”

 

\--

 

In Mycroft’s grand house, Sherlock liked the library best. After two weeks of sleeping uncomfortably on his too-soft bed and being awkwardly dressed and fed by hired servants, he often retreated to the quiet sanctity of its dusty shelves. When he’d first arrived, he’d been too occupied with the long meetings his brother held as they agreed upon the tactics of their plans. Mycroft’s secret forces were small, but intelligent and well prepared. Sherlock, thrilled in the excitement of it all, had successfully beaten down any feelings of discomfort in his new life.

Then the night came when the meetings were finished, and it became a waiting game. The stage had been chosen, the players set out to dress it, and Sherlock was the star, willing and frightened and excited all at once. He lay in bed, running through everything in his mind again and again, thankful for the opportunity to reorganize it’s contents and push ahead.

Though he was exhausted, sleep never came to him, and his mind strayed from the coming events into what had led him there. Mycroft had delivered on his promise; John was released from custody that night, and was unharmed. He had made no attempt to contact Sherlock, but had spoken many times to Lestrade, who communicated his every move to a less than receptive audience.

The man had insisted on being of assistance in the plan to recapture Moriarty. He’d appeared a few evenings after the reunion and spoken to Mycroft for hours. Apparently Lestrade felt some burdensome desire to redeem himself to the Emperor. Since then he’d been at Mycroft’s house at all hours of the day, sometimes just to annoy Sherlock, it seemed, with stories of John’s whereabouts.

“Lestrade,” he’d said, finally exasperated, “if I cared a wit about that man, I’d ask. Would you kindly shut up?”

The infuriating man had simply shrugged and said, “If that’s what you really want.” From then on he’d made an effort to drop less than subtle hints and heavy implications as to wear John went, giving Sherlock a headache from all the gritting of his teeth. Lestrade couldn’t get it through his skull that Sherlock didn’t want _anything_ to do with John Watson, and it was maddening.

He’d determined to reconstruct himself from that life the moment he’d given up his freedom to ensure John’s safety. Gone was Basil, the name given by a long dead farmer, cursed by orphanage administrators and drawled out by thieves in the shadows of Nodol. Gone were the memories of cold nights, alone and starving. He pushed them all aside, remembering only the sharp lessons of Wiggins’ harsh teaching, and the determination to use his intellect and survive.

 And just as equally, he repressed the joys of the last ten years, forcing himself not to miss, not to regret. The freedom of his city draped in bright moonlight; an adorned bride whispering seductive secrets as he whistled about her darkened streets. He’d found Paris, but had lost his Nodol. And the longing made him dream – deep, twisted dreams full of chases and John, always John, smiling and panting and making Sherlock’s heart ache.

Every morning he watched as they faded with the rising sun, his city and his John. And every morning he packed them away again, deep into a chest that once was impenetrable within the attic of his mind.

He had lain awake and not thought of John. But he had not been able to sleep, so he ventured out into the house and found the library. Without thought, he had plucked a book that interested him, and begun to read, suddenly hungry for all the knowledge that had been denied him for years. He’d read through the night and come back again and again, consuming all he could.

Sherlock found himself there, two days before the execution date of their plan, reading about organic chemistry. He glanced up at the portraits that ordained the far wall in a moment of digesting some information, and found he couldn’t take his eyes away. Interested, he laid down the book and went up to the portraits.

The largest one was of a dark-haired man, looking fiercely out his frame as though the whole world affronted him. Sherlock honestly couldn’t see the resemblance between them, besides perhaps, the shape of their nose and mouth. He far more resembled the much softer looking woman in the portrait besides the late Emperor’s, her eyes sharply blue eyes and high cheekbones sloping gracefully down to an identical chin to his own. Something in Sherlock shook to see his mother’s portrait, so much younger than he remembered her, dark hair piled high above her head and adorned in a glittering tiara.

“They would not have wanted us to live in the past.”

Sherlock turned to see his brother standing by the door, formally dressed, as he always seemed to be, even within his own house. Mycroft joined him in front of the paintings.

“Did they rescue these from the palace?” Sherlock asked after a quiet moment.

“No, they have always been here. They were commissioned when they were first married. I believe they spent the first years of their marriage here in Paris, before I was born.”

Sherlock nodded, but felt something cold shift in him. It was a harsh realization to think you have no connection with the people who gave you life. It seemed wrong somehow, to not feel their loss, to not wish he could’ve known them. It seemed his only memory of his mother was her soft whispers to him one night as he’d cried about a nightmare and clutched at the ornate diamond necklace that had swung out from her neck as she’d kissed his forehead.

“All lives end,” Mycroft said, reading his brother’s conflicted face. “All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.”

It was disconcerting, Sherlock thought, to have someone who knew him so little, read him so well. They were survivors, he and Mycroft, of tragic loss. No compassion, no heartbreak could scrape past their icy surfaces. It was nice, he supposed, to have a companion in his bitterness. 

“I’ve asked John Watson to come tomorrow.”

Ah. The real reason for Mycroft’s seeking him out.

“What cause would you have for that?”

“His reward. I did promise.”

Sherlock snorted and walked to return to his book. “No doubt he’ll be grateful.”

“No doubt.”

Mycroft dithered for a moment, seemingly unsure of himself. Sherlock glanced up from his book, waiting. His brother sighed.

“Sherlock, I am concerned that his presence might disturb our plans.”

_All hearts are broken._

Sherlock squinted up accusingly. “You shouldn’t have listened to Lestrade, Mycroft, he’s a shameless romantic.”

“I only thought, it might be reassuring to hear you –”

Sherlock launched up, suddenly unable to listen to another word. “Oh for Christ’s sake! I am _not_ going to get distracted by a _kitchen boy_ waltzing into your house and getting his greedy hands on your money! Why is everyone treating me like I’m a heartbroken heroine, I am _fine_!” He railed.

Mycroft looked momentarily shocked by the outburst, but quickly recovered. “Alright.” He nodded. “Alright. I see I was mistaken.”

He turned to leave, but just as he reached the door, turned. “Seven in the evening, he’ll be here,” he said and shut the door behind him.

 

\--

 

John arrived at seven, just like the Emperor had instructed. His stomach was doing flips as he was escorted in, sure that he’d see Basil while he was here. He wasn’t sure what he would say to him. That he was sorry for forcing the Emperor to meet with him? No, he wasn’t apologetic for a second that he’d restored the man to his family. But he still felt like he owed him something.

When he’d returned to the hotel the night of the opera, after he’d been released from the Emperor’s rogues, Lestrade had badgered him for information. They’d both pieced together that there was a scheme to protect the Emperor’s life, and now that Basil had revealed himself to his brother, that he was bound to be wrapped up in it. Lestrade had gone to the monarch’s house and asked to join his forces, swearing loyalty once again. John had longed to join him, but knowing his feelings for Basil would conflict his choices, decided against it. Lestrade had returned late that night bursting with information, but only able to share a few details. Many of them included how well Basil looked in the royal household, making John sick as he lay in bed.

He’d tried to leave Paris a dozen times since then, but was always drawn back to wait, knowing that the party to celebrate the return of the Grand Duke Sherlock was fast approaching. He wasn’t a genius, but he knew the party and the plans Lestrade was apart of were linked, and John was worried. It was madness. He would not speak to the man, but he couldn’t bear to leave the city where he was. Then the Emperor had bid him come, and John had been unable to decline.

The butler led him up a large staircase, past an open door to a library, and into a small office. The Emperor was there, sitting at ornate wooden desk. He rose when John entered and bowed, smiling politely, but coldly.

“You wanted to see me, Your Grace?” His heart was pounding so loud, he was sure the other man could hear it.

“Yes. Mr. Watson.” He placed his hand on a small trunk that sat on the desk. “Your reward. Two million in gold, as advertised.”

John stared at the chest in disbelief. Did the Emperor really summon him here for this? The man watched John carefully, as though he was waiting for something. John only shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but I won’t take it.”

“No?” A grand eyebrow rose. “You’ve earned it.”

John choked on the desperate laugh that wanted to escape. “No, no I didn’t.” It as cruel, it was terribly cruel to be mocked after he’d already lost so much.

“What changed your mind?”

John shuffled his feet, clasped his hands behind his back. “It was more of…” He looked up in his Emperor’s eyes, “A change of heart, Your Grace.”

The man stared for a long moment at John, then nodded sharply. John bowed again and turned to leave, before the Emperor called out again.

“It was you, then. Sherlock told me. The boy who helped us out of the palace and pulled us into the pond. You saved our lives that night.”

John looked back, and saw then the tall skinny boy he remembered from a long time ago, whose rare smile was for a small boy with raven black hair alone.

“It is enough, Your Highness, to know that you are both alive.”

The Emperor’s turned away gaze was enough of a dismissal to John. He walked out of the office and toward the staircase. As he passed the library, a shadow caused him to pause.

“John?” Came a deep voice, and Basil emerged, holding a worn novel in his hands, and dressed in fine clothes. John was thrown by how handsome he was, having been denied a look at him for so many days, and he took a moment to drink him in. He realized belatedly that Basil was waiting for him to say something.

“H-how are you?” He stammered out, feeling foolish.

“Fine. Bored presently, but not always. Are you alright?”

Basil had never asked him anything like that before. It was strange to hear such pleasentries issue from his mouth. “I’m… Well I’m fine.”

“Good.”

“Yes.”

They stood awkwardly silent for a few minutes. “I’m leaving for Nodol in the morning,” John said finally.

“Oh?” Basil looked over John’s shoulder for a moment. “Well I hope you found what you were looking for.”

John only shook his head and let out a bitter laugh. “Right. Yeah, you too.”

Basil frowned. “I’m only making conversation.”

“Since when!” John exclaimed. “You don’t make conversation, Basil, ever.”

“Mr. Watson.” Both Basil and John whirled around as Anthea approached them. “You will address His Majesty’s brother as the Grand Duke Sherlock or His Highness.”

“No,” Basil protested softly, “it’s alright. He doesn’t need –”

“No,” John bowed slowly, “I apologize, Your Highness, the Grand Duke Sherlock.”

Anthea raised a condescending eyebrow at his sarcasm but merely chirped, “I’m to take you back.”

John straightened up from his bow, and met Basil’s eyes one last time. For once, it wasn’t ice and cold civility in his face, but sheer misery. Immediately, John’s face crumbled too, and they stared at each other’s grief, unable to touch, unable to reach out and comfort.

“Come, Mr. Watson,” Anthea called from the staircase.

With one last look at Basil’s torn expression, John left.      

 


	12. Remind Me to Thank You For This Later

War had changed the way the Parisians liked to dance. The swirling grand waltzes of his childhood had been washed out and heralded as old hat and unfashionable. Now Mycroft had to endure the foxtrot and jazz music and the tight, clicking whirls of fringed skirts. The American musician he’d hired was crooning and performing an appalling dance called the “Charleston,” much to the frenzied delight of his guests.

From the balcony he did notice a few uncomfortable party-goers; older, illustrious members of his family and the French upper class looking down their noses at the boisterous young women and gentlemen flouncing about the dance floor. Their disapproval was completely ignored, however. When the war had settled, the youth of Paris had decided to forget propriety and live as hard and fast as they could manage. It was a vigorous vitality that had barely bloomed in Nodol, and as much as Mycroft held distaste for the crazed mania, it made his heart heavy to think of the broken culture of his beloved home.

He scanned the party space below him, searching for Sherlock, but was unable to locate his younger brother. Concerned, he walked to where Andrea was standing by the staircase, rather stunningly dressed in a dark beaded gown. She bowed at his approach.

“Andrea, où est mon frère?”

Her eyes turned sharp on alert. They were to be extra vigilant tonight; no mistakes would be tolerated after the last debacle at the opera. Mycroft was furious with himself for underestimating Moriarty. The man had been one step ahead, tracking Sherlock as he’d made his way to Paris, and not believing for a second that the actor advertised in the Parisian news was the real Grand Duke. John Watson, the damned fool, had given them away the moment he’d used fake papers to get on the train out of Nodol. But there was nothing for it now. Moriarty knew that the real Sherlock had made his way to Mycroft, and he knew that they were aware of his presence in France. Tonight, they would finally end this ten-year hunt. It was unlikely Moriarty wouldn’t appear; after all, they’d thrown a party just for him.

Andrea must have signaled for someone to report Sherlock’s whereabouts, because one agent had met them at the top of the stairs. He bowed quickly and stated that he’d seen the Grand Duke head toward the patio. Mycroft thanked him and ascended into the party, smiling at his guests as they registered his presence. A few agents were tucked among the partygoers, watching him with careful expressions, waiting for their signal. Mycroft drifted through the haze of smoke and laughter to the back doors that led to a darkened patio.

Leaning against a railing that looked over the lawns, Sherlock let out a long stream of smoke, a cool contrast to the bright frenzy inside. Mycroft leaned casually next to him, gazing out into the darkness that seemed to enrapture his brother.

“Aren’t you interested in dancing, after all these years?”

The young man look over from the corner of his eye as he pulled another drag from his cigarette. Mycroft’s fingers twitched on the railing.

“Care for one?” Sherlock asked politely as he reached for the pack in his jacket pocket. Mycroft shook his head.

“I don’t anymore. I’ve a bit of asthma that I’ve never been able to shake.”

Sherlock hummed and returned it to his pocket. “Never learned.”

“Hm?”

“Those dances. I never learned them. Never learned any dances really.”

Mycroft watched as his fingers tapped on the freezing metal of the railing. “It’s a pity. Mother and Father were fond of it. And music. Do you remember your violin lessons?”

Sherlock sniffed and flicked the rest of his cigarette away, its embers leaving a red streak in its arched fall to the lawn below. He turned around to face the château, catching glimpses of the merriment inside the glass doors. Mycroft followed his gaze.

“Look at them all twirl about, as though the world was nothing but champagne and dancing.”

“Are we so different?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft glanced at him. “Our monarchy is over. I will never be Emperor of Nodol; I may never see her green hills again. But we were born into a life of glittering jewels and titles, dear brother, and that will always be our place. Outside. Different from them.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a long breath. Mycroft watched him pull on the semblance of control and fortitude that he imagined the young man must have taught himself after years of being alone.

“No reports?” He asked in a deep voice.

“None.”

Sherlock nodded, looking as though he might rejoin the party, but pausing for a moment to watch a rosy-cheeked couple glide past the doors. Mr. Lestrade was somewhat distracted from the purpose of the night in Molly’s company, obviously enjoying her undivided admiration. His younger brother observed them, and the heartache was so plain that Mycroft felt his chest tighten in pity.  

“Mr. Lestrade informed me that Mr. Watson left Paris. I had it arranged that he meet with no trouble when he returns to Nodol.”

Sherlock twitched, his fingers clenching at his side. “No doubt he was eager to spend his reward as fast as he could.”

It was strange to think outside of oneself after so many years of caring for no one. He had small affection for a few people, mostly due to their usefulness, but for Sherlock he could not deny the familial tug of protective love. They had lost so much. All Mycroft had left was his title and fleeting political power. There was little joy in the life he led – a fate Mycroft had committed himself to upon arrival in Paris. But what of Sherlock? What of the little boy who’d desired to be a pirate and wept over the death of his favorite dog? What of the man whose brilliant mind would save them all this night?

“I am grateful,” he said, just as Molly and Mr. Lestrade disappeared again into the crowd, “that you and I found each other, Sherlock. I will always be your brother, here for whatever you need.”

He made his way past Sherlock’s still form, youth clouded over in misery. “But you should know.” Mycroft twisted his lips upward. “He didn’t take the money.”

He only registered the confusion that clouded his brother’s face before he continued on, into the fray, looking for Andrea. The tension of the night’s mission hung tightly in the air above the sounds of trumpets and clanging crystal and tapping heels across polished wood.

 

\--

 

The plan was simple and Sherlock knew his part well. He stationed himself near the doors, waiting for his signal, and tried to blot out Mycroft’s speech from his mind. Lady Hooper’s laugh traveled to him from somewhere nearby, and he turned toward her. She was smiling at another young woman; Lestrade was miraculously absent from her side. Mycroft must have had some choice words with him about focusing on the night’s real purpose.

Sherlock thought back to the day after the reunion with his brother, when his cousin had rushed into the office where they had been meeting and gathered him into her small arms. She’d cried like a child, begging his forgiveness. It had been so strange to have the affection of a person he’d only just met, and feeling obligated to comfort her.

It’d only taken a few weeks of Lestrade’s persistence for her to be attached to the ex-guard again. Mycroft had been highly resistant to the idea, but Sherlock, in a rare moment of charity, convinced his brother of Lestrade’s character and genuine affection for the lady. Ever since then, Mycroft had kept out of it, only observing them with a somewhat comical sneer.

Sherlock watched her pretty face blush and inexplicably his mind turned to John. He sighed irritably and looked toward the staircase where Mycroft’s head agent was standing. She shook her head when he caught her eye and frustration pulsed through him. Was the whole party for nothing? Moriarty’s sense of drama might be easily tempted, but it was nearly midnight. Fretfully, Sherlock made his way to the front of the château, ignoring the looks his brother and Lestrade gave him from the side of the dance floor.

It had been stifling inside, and he was relieved to find the front hall cool and empty. He considered another cigarette, and was nearly pulling it out of his pocket when the front door opened. Sherlock glanced up, half-expecting to see some indecent couple returning to the party after a scandalous romp in the front gardens, and froze. John was standing on the threshold, eyebrows up in surprise to find Sherlock there, alone in the front hall.

“John.” He attempted to say just as he gasped in a gulp of air. Sherlock sputtered as he tried to clear his throat and reassemble himself. “Er, hello again. I thought, well, I’d been informed that is that –”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was hard and serious. Sherlock finally saw the drawn in shoulders, the stillness of his body, the steadiness of his fists at his side. “Is there anyone else in here?”

Sherlock shook his head, faintly disappointed in John’s persistence in using his real name. It felt as though he was mocking him like he had on the stairs two nights earlier.

“Everyone’s at the party. Why are you here?”

John flicked his eyes behind Sherlock toward the door where the music and muted chattered was carrying from. He glanced around quickly looking for others. Then he strangely melted, his shoulders drooping slightly, his grim expression falling into a charming smile. It was false, not anything like the genuine grins Sherlock had been on the receiving end of weeks ago, but softer at least.

The man strolled over to Sherlock, resting a hand on his arm and lightly squeezing. This close, Sherlock noticed that the smile still hadn’t reached his eyes, so he remained tense. He stared down in confusion as John drifted closer into his personal space. Slowly he reached up to curl a cold hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, and leaned upward to place his lips by Sherlock’s ear.

“Come with me,” he whispered. It was probably meant to seem intimate, but Sherlock had felt John’s lips against his ear before, and it had been so much warmer then, so much more enticing. When he pulled away, John’s eyes were hard. In an uncharacteristically grand motion, he offered Sherlock his arm.

Brow creased, Sherlock took it, and let John lead him outside, across the patio and down marble steps toward the driveway. There were two agents at the bottom. They watched the couple closely, obviously unsure about the Grand Duke’s companion. John glanced at them and tried to smile, so Sherlock, feeling like they might need privacy, called out to the agents.

“Anthea m'a dit de prendre en charge ce poste. Allez à l'intérieur pour des missions.”

They both hesitated, looking to each other in uncertainty, so Sherlock barked, “N'avez-vous pas entendu ma commande? Allez à l'intérieur maintenant.”

John stiffened slightly as the men bowed and hastened inside. Sherlock pulled his arm away and glanced at him.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

John looked around, obviously on high alert, but said nothing. Grasping Sherlock’s hand, he pulled them across the gravel, urging them into the darkened edge of the property where a sparse wood grew. Right before they reached the edge of the trees, Sherlock heard a metallic click followed by a whoosh of air. He ducked away, eradicating his hand from John’s grasp, and searching for the attacker. But the brooding figure that emerged from the wood didn’t reach for Sherlock. Instead, he wrapped a strong arm around John’s neck and ground a pistol to his temple.

“Think we didn’t guess you’d make a run for it?” Sherlock assessed the German; he was one of Moriarty’s men, apparently alone, but the others must be close. He was controlled, not going for a last minute attack; this was planned. John struggled against his grasp and the man tightened his hold around his throat. 

“Let him go,” Sherlock hissed.

The man laughed. “When he’s been so useful? Wouldn’t dream of it.”

John hung his head, the fight gone out of him for a moment as something like guilt darkened his face. Sherlock felt doubt prickle at his stomach.

“John?” He hated the way he sounded lost. “What the hell–”

Voices were heard from the top of the stairs, frantic orders being made. The German grinned at Sherlock. “Looking for you, I think. Something must have gone wrong.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, in control again, as long as he kept his eyes away from John’s defeated form.

“There’s a meeting my boss would like you to attend. If you’d be so kind, Your Majesty.”

Sherlock looked toward the darkened path through the trees that the German had indicated. John was breathing harshly as he glared at the ground.

“Fine. But leave John. He’s done his bit. No use for him now.”

The German only laughed and pushed John forward, shoving the gun to his back and waving Sherlock down the dirt path. He complied, looking at John as he passed, but the man wouldn’t meet his eyes.

The dirt path sloped downward, away from the lights of château and the increasingly panicked noises of the partygoers and into a darkened shroud of trees. Sherlock braced himself as he walked, brutally aware he was heading into a trap. John must have known the plan and tried to take him away from the party. The path was curving; John wasn’t meant to lead him out the front of the ornate house, but toward the back lawns. The German had intercepted their escape, informed by someone within. Sherlock breathed deeply. One of Mycroft’s men wasn’t to be trusted.

The night air trapped beneath the tall trees was bitter; Sherlock saw John shiver out of the corner of his eye, and something burst in him all at once in fear and pain and sharp grief. They were going to die, he realized as they finally emerged into a recess of chestnut trees. He thought of John’s laughter and the sogginess of muddy snow along a railroad track.

The space was empty, but Sherlock knew that Moriarty couldn’t be far. The German eased John forward and onto his knees, the revolver pressed to the back of his head. Sherlock used his dark-accustomed eyes to search along the edge of the opening.

A sharp crack to his right and he smiled. “Well I’m here. You’ve finally got me. That’s what it’s all been for right? The train, the poisoning, all to get to me.”   

 He narrowed his eyes at the obvious figure dithering in the shadows. John huffed behind him. Sherlock didn’t look back.

“Come on. You’ve come all this way. Did you think I wouldn’t remember you?”

A muffled cry escaped John just before Sherlock was taken down. His nose collided with a rock, just before his hair was wrenched up, leaving his scalp screaming. Strong hands ground his wrists together behind his back as he was yanked up on his knees. Something long and sharp was being held inches from his exposed neck; his attacker panted hotly across his forehead.

A low chuckled issued from the figure in the darkness, and it slithered forward. His dark hair and pale face were just barely visible in the moonlight as he took in Sherlock’s captured body kneeling in the dirt. Black eyes peered up through thin eyelashes, victorious and bloodthirsty.

“Happy to see me?” The voice was soft and sinister, as inky as the shadows its master emerged from. John was struggling to control his breathing.

“Indeed.” Sherlock called back, attempting to sound as calm as possible. The sword faintly reflected moonlight into his eyes as it inched closer to his throat.

“Well done, Moran,” Moriarty praised. The hands tightened around Sherlock’s wrists. The dark eyes took in his grimace.

“I’m a tiny bit disappointed with you Sherlock, if I’m honest. Thought you were clever for hiding all this time, but really, taking a train out of Nodol with false papers? Idiotic.”

John grunted and Moriarty’s eyes flickered to him. “But then, ordinary people always are. Like your friend. He was rather good back there wasn’t he? Drawing you out. Stupid, but not useless.”

Sherlock eyes closed, focusing on breathing, on thinking of a way out. His attacker was holding a sword. He remembered the dark knight on the bridge, his frantic gestures to Moriarty as the man sputtered from the water below.

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Commanding moron’s to do your dirty work.”

The knight growled behind him and the cold, sharp edge of the sword was firmly pressed to his skin. Moriarty only looked vaguely amused.

“Yes, well it’s rather funny. And I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”

“Never stopped you before.”

“Oh! Yes, the chandelier. Messy that bit, I’ll admit. But ten years is a long time.”

It was quick, miniscule, not even really there, but Sherlock saw something like a tremble pulse through Moriarty’s skin. The weakness was bright as day. It made sense. The man had him and John captured and on their knees. He’d known Mycroft’s plan, but drew Sherlock out into the woods. The flask was taken from their bunks, but given away to a man on his way to Paris. Moran shifted behind him, his hold on Sherlock’s wrists easing fractionally.

“Yes.” He smiled. “Very long isn’t it. To know you’d failed in your curse of my family. It must have eaten away at you to know my brother survived. When you found out about me, it must have nearly… _killed_ you.”

Moriarty’s face twitched, but he laughed, rocking from his heels to his toes. “Just so. And I’ve grown very tired of waiting.”

“And yet you entrusted it all to a blundering servant who failed you at every turn. Not very clever.”

Moran shifted again, but Moriarty’s eyes were trained on Sherlock. His head cocked to the side in one smooth movement. “Don’t think so?”

He nodded behind them and a dull slap of metal against bone led Sherlock careening backwards. John lay unconscious, face first in the dirt, blood trickling from his temple. Sherlock’s protest ripped from his throat before Moran had him steadily captured again.

“Should have shot him,” came the knight’s gruff voice above him, “that bastard bit me earlier.”

The German glared at him and held up the gun. “Would have been heard.”

“We have them contained,” Moran snarled.

“Enough, Sebastian.” Moriarty was beginning to look bored. He glanced at his servant’s sword.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you, Sherlock?”

“Kill me.”

Moriarty dropped his hands to his side in a comic display of exasperation. “Yes, that’s rather to the point. But it’s more than that. Do you remember that night? Moran does.”

The sword bit into his throat just slightly, piercing the skin. “The bridge, the midnight swim.” His lips curled downward. “Your foolish brother.”

The man sauntered forward. “But what comes around, comes around, and around, and around…” His pale fingers ran along the edge of the sword. “And I think it’s time I fulfilled what was meant to happen all those years ago.”

Moriarty met Moran’s eyes, and just as the sword was edged backward, Sherlock gasped out, “You have to do it yourself then.”

The sword froze, and Moriarty’s eyes narrowed.

“He’s failed you, Moriarty. He couldn’t kill my brother that night. He couldn’t blow our train up properly. You thought your flask would do it, but he mucked up the delivery of that poison too. You rigged that chandelier that night, stabbed my father, erupted the bombs that destroyed my family. But he’s worthless. Only you can truly satisfy the curse.”

Sherlock sucked in air, waited as the madman stared at him with cold eyes. A breeze rustled the leaves as Moriarty stood frozen beneath the moonlight. Moran’s arm rose again.

“Master, he’s –”

But Moriarty’s hand shot up and motioned toward the German. For a second Sherlock felt the knight still, then force his sword up, knocking hard against Sherlock’s chin and sending him sprawling to the ground as he whipped around. There was a gunshot, and a tremendous roar of pain, followed by the angry clang of metal. A sharp tang of blood pierced the night air and Sherlock managed to turn just as the German fell, a deep gash in his stomach spilling red onto the dirt. Moran was sprayed across the chest in blood, his sword dripping, and his eyes fierce in their betrayal.

“Am I not your servant?” He screeched, “Have I not lived for you all my life?”

Sherlock looked to John’s body, and started when he realized it was missing. Another gunshot rang through the wood, and Moran ducked. Sherlock fell to his hands, scraping them against the dirt. Another round of fire rang through the air and Moriarty sputtered next to Sherlock. He reared up, only to come face to face with Moriarty’s empty smile, blood pulsing between his teeth. A cold hand caressed Sherlock’s face for a few fleeting seconds before the dead man slumped forward against Sherlock’s chest. With a yelp, he threw the body from him, and launched up to chase Moran who was running into the woods. He pursued quickly, not looking back, but hoping John was following.

Sherlock ran and ran, slowly despairing as the sounds of Moran’s escape turned quiet. He was shaking, his whole body convulsing as he sucked in tight gasps of air. Finally he gave up, pressing his body against the nearest tree and shuddering alone in the darkness.

Quick footsteps approached, and just as he raised his arms to protect himself, John came into view, holding up the revolver, eyes wide, blood trickling down the side of his face.

“Basil,” he breathed, and dropped the gun, instantly wrapping his steady hands around his friend’s face. “Basil, are you alright?”

Basil shook uncontrollably, slumping forward to breathe in John’s comforting smell as the world tilted slightly. They were on the floor when he regained consciousness, John’s fingers slowly running through his hair as he pressed his face to his stomach. Basil glanced up.

“You were pretending. I thought he’d killed you.”

“Nope. Knew you’d do something stupid and need me to rescue you.”

Basil huffed. His fingers, fisted around the back of John’s jacket, tightened a little.

“I thought you were leaving,” He whispered.

John sighed and gripped Sherlock’s shoulder. “I was.”

“They took you before you could.”

“No.”

“No?”

Sherlock lifted his head. John’s pupils were wide and his eyelashes shook. “I was coming back. They took me before I could get here.”

“Coming back? Why would you come back?”

“Well, because…” There was blood running down John’s cheek, and he had very dark crescents beneath his eyes and he was shivering just a bit as sweat cooled on his skin, but Basil saw something integral in the lines around his mouth, something exquisite in the pads of his fingers, something whole in slight clef of his chin. So when John leaned in, thumbs slowly ascending to caress Basil’s neck, lips parted, he thought how exactly right it was to meet him in a kiss.

They took their time with it, not quite like the passionate one beneath the Pont Neuf. John’s breath steadily pulsed across Basil’s cheekbones, answering his question and the others that followed, slotting his lips between Basil’s and pursuing with just a bit of tongue. There was little noise in the darkened corner of the wood, but John’s sighs as Basil reverently kissed his jaw and neck and the uninjured temple and then the bleeding one, was the most beautiful music he could imagine.

As he pulled away, resting his forehead against John’s and listening to his heart race, Basil felt as though he’d given a very grave oath somehow, swearing his life with kisses in the moonlit grounds of a Parisian château, to man he’d not known two months ago.

“Why are you laughing?” Basil could feel John’s smile against his lips. “You git, stop laughing.”

“I can’t,” Basil chuckled.

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“No.” Basil kissed him again. “Because its perfect.”

A voice called out from their left, and John pulled away to gather his gun. Seconds later, Lestrade jogged by them, shouting Sherlock’s name.

“Here, Greg!” John yelled back.

The other man whirled around and caught sight of them, sitting in the shadow of the tree, huddled together. He breathed out a sigh of relief and helped them up.

“Christ! We thought you were dead. Both of you. What have you been doing, passionately reuniting all this time?”

Sherlock scowled at him, but John burst out laughing, then winced, finally assessing the damage to his head. Sherlock turned to Lestrade urgently.

“John’s been hurt. Moriarty was killed just now by his old guard, Moran, who ran off. He also killed one of the Germans, who hit John.” Sherlock gritted his teeth. “We have to go after him. He won’t get far in the dark. Where are all of Mycroft’s men?”

“Securing the château or looking for you. Had a bit of trouble while you were dealing with Moriarty.”

John nodded determinedly. “It has to be us then. We can take along the others if we run into them on the way.”

Sherlock frowned. “No, John, you have to go back. Have the doctor care for you.”

“I am a doctor,” he growled, “or as close as I can get. And I’ve had worse than this and still shot down half a dozen men. We don’t have time to argue and the longer we stand here, the farther he gets away. Come on, Basil. You’re the genius. Lead the way.”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, glancing at Lestrade’s grim face, but remembering fingers clasped to his and heat on his back, he nodded his head.

“Together,” he said and took off running.

 

\--

 

Mycroft was tired. His eyes itched and his head pounded and his skin stuck irritatingly to his two-day old shirt. But Mycroft was also feeling as light as he could remember since the day his father died. Moriarty was dead. Not twelve hours ago he’d witnessed the body buried, forever hid away from those who trembled at the sight of him. His family had been avenged, and a ten-year burden had lifted from Mycroft’s soul. He sat in his chair behind the mahogany desk where he had planned for years the death of his father’s betrayer and breathed.

The door to his office opened and Andrea strode in, looking no less sharp than usual, the blessed thing.

“Votre frère est de retour,” she said. He nodded and straightened his jacket just as the young man strode in. He looked more pale and gaunt than usual, but there was a manic energy in the brightness of his eyes and jolted steps.

“He’s managed to get on a boat,” Sherlock reported without preamble. “He’s heading back to Nodol of all places. Must have connections there, or thinks he could hide with your forces being on continent. We ought to pursue him.”

Mycroft watched the young man clench and unclench his fists fitfully. “You think you can find him there?”

“Of course.” Sherlock nodded. “I know where he’s going. It won’t be easy with his head start, but we’ll overcome him eventually.”

“You’ve not slept.”

“Neither have you.”

Mycroft sighed, and sat back in his chair. “You ought to rest first, Sherlock.”

“He’s getting away!” The young man’s brow was drawn up in confused indignation. “If you won’t send people after him, I’ll go.”

“You and Mr. Watson, you mean.”

“Yes well,” Sherlock’s face fell a bit, “he’s been incredibly helpful so far.”

The clock in the hall chimed lazily. Mycroft assessed his brother.

“It’s not so simple. The plans to rebuild Nodol must be executed carefully. Now that Moriarty has been publicly taken care of, our arrangements can finally take place. One wrong move, and it crumbles.”

Sherlock was shaking his head, uncaring in the face of his current mission. Andrea was glaring quite forcefully at the man.

“I need someone inside,” Mycroft began, “who won’t give us away. That could be you, Sherlock, but you’ll have to obey orders.”

He scoffed, throwing his hands up dramatically. “I’ve returned at your bidding, haven’t I?”

“Yes, and I see that you’re determined to see good come to Nodol, so listen to me. You’re to take a specific route and stay undercover. It’s not likely they’ll recognize you in Nodol as my brother. You can find Moran, _after_ you do exactly as I say, do you understand?”

Sherlock’s face was all contrition warred with resentment but he nodded in submission. Mycroft smiled.

“It’s not safe to send you on your own, of course. I think I might employ John Watson to look after you. Mr. Lestrade’s told me he’s an excellent shot.”

Sherlock looked up in surprise, cheeks pinking at bit.

“Alright,” he agreed.

“But for now, rest,” Andrea spoke up, “for all of you. Nodol will still stand tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded and looked to his brother for just a moment before leaving the office quietly. Andrea followed him to the door, but looked back at Mycroft for a moment.

“It’s all a rather fitting ending, sir,” she said.

“Oh no.” Mycroft smiled at his fingers fanned out on the wood of his desk. “It’s just the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me for the cheesiness, the movie is cheesy okay?


	13. Epilogue

Sherlock huffed and adjusted his crouch in the filthy alleyway. John and Lestrade were having a bit of a reunion behind him, whispering and giggling like schoolgirls every few moments. It was setting Sherlock’s teeth on edge. He knew they hadn’t seen each other in six months, but shushing them every time John told an apparently hysterical story about Sherlock was getting unbearably irritating.

“I look up, and I swear to god, it’s Basil flying through the air on a rope, in bloody _tights_ , and he tackles the guy mid-fall!”

Lestrade was barely keeping in his laughter from the sound of his undignified snorts. Sherlock turned for what felt like the fiftieth time and glared at the two.

“Jesus, you’re going to get a permanent scowl if you keep that up,” Lestrade whispered with a chuckle.

“Could you please keep the chatter to a minimum? We are trying to capture one of the most dangerous men in Nodol.”

“We’ve been waiting for hours,” Lestrade hissed back, “sorry if we’re a bit bored back here, _Your Majesty_.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the sarcastic use of the title. “I have no idea what Mycroft was thinking of, sending you along.”

“Maybe he was thinking that you needed minding after the last stunt you pulled.”

“Just shut up!” Sherlock whispered a little too loudly.

John sighed and only shrugged at Lestrade’s indignation. “He’s been in a strop all day.”

“God, how do you deal with it?”

“I call him a royal pain in my arse and ignore him.”

Lestrade sniggered at that and almost lost his balance. Basil whipped around to glare at them again; all his suppressed impatience and frustration from the wait coming out in full force.

“The only pain in the arse that I can think of, John, is what you’ll be experiencing tonight should you fall on yours fumbling about in the dark while I catch Moran.”

John leered at him with a devilish grin. “Only if you promise to fumble about with me after, love.”

Sherlock’s brain stuttered, and he found himself staring at John’s lips for a moment before snapping back to the task at hand. John chuckled as Lestrade playfully jostled him with a light punch. Sherlock couldn’t even bring himself to shush them, too stunned by John’s blatant flirting.

It had been happening a lot recently. Well, he supposed they’d flirted with each other from the moment they’d met, in their own way, but lately it was different. John was more aggressive; Sherlock was constantly on the receiving end of lingering glances and heady comments.

Another cloud passed over the moon and the alleyway was almost pitched black. Sherlock peered toward the dark flats. Still no movement. He hoped he wasn’t wrong. They’d been extremely successful in all their cases so far, and he knew Mycroft was pleased. But Sebastian Moran had eluded their efforts one too many times and it was starting to become unpleasant.

Sherlock remembered the chase through Paris with John, their first together, pursuing the wrong cab and laughing off the failure beneath the Pont Neuf and then… Sherlock bit his lower lip. There had been many kisses since then. He had learned that as long as Mrs. Hudson was out or asleep, and they had nothing on for Mycroft, and they weren’t likely to be interrupted by any visitors, John liked to kiss Sherlock.

They’d begun as chaste, happy pecks as John felt the need, and Sherlock had liked the easy affection, endlessly thankful for the man’s allegiance in their work for Nodol along with his tolerance of him. Then John had embraced Sherlock one night before bed and let his kisses turn into lingering things, slow and reminiscent of their kiss under the trees in Paris. These sorts of kisses became a bit of a ritual before he wandered upstairs, usually a bit moon-eyed and smiley. Sherlock learned he quite liked that look.

A few months ago they’d run into a factory rigged with dynamite and nearly died, and upon returning to the flat, John had pushed Sherlock beside the door and ground up against him until he thought he might burst. Since then, John took his time with Sherlock’s mouth, kissing the corners reverently and sucking on the bottom lip, as though it might be the last time he’ll be able to. His hands wandered more, intent on exploring Sherlock’s taught muscles and sensitive skin on his neck. He’d also discovered Sherlock’s responsiveness to being pinned when kissed and had experimented with this in nearly every available surface in the flat – against the door and walls, pushed into the sofa cushions, leaned up against the tables.

Their bedrooms had remained unsullied by their frantic kisses however, a fact that left Sherlock feeling both relieved and frustrated. There were times, when the friction and heat of John’s body became too much and he felt his body broil with tension and the need to do more. But always, John would pull back before it got too far, and Sherlock was grateful. His inexperience and confused feelings toward his friend were enough to make him nervous at the idea of sex, let alone the social implications that would complicate their relationship.

But sometimes his mind would drift to the night of the dynamite encounter and John’s grunts as he undulated his hips against Sherlock’s, his harsh nips at his neck, gasping out, “god you’re gorgeous, Basil, so fucking gorgeous,” and it was all he could do not to tackle the man to the ground. Sherlock shook his head as heat prickled across his face at the memory. John’s hair curled around his sweaty face, John’s neck flushed with arousal, John’s prick swelling to hardness beneath his –

“Basil! That’s him!” John cried as he leapt up, Lestrade not far behind him.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, cursing his lack of concentration and followed them swiftly across the street and into the flat. Moran had already sensed their approach and was sprinting up the stairs, probably to the roof. John was quicker than the others, already halfway up to the landing as Lestrade took the steps by twos. Reconsidering his choices, Sherlock turned around and ran to the side of the building, delighted to see the fire escape. He leapt for the initial ladder and easily scaled it, listening for any signs of John and Lestrade’s confrontation, but it was silent. He continued his climb, the moon flickering dark and bright light as the clouds continued past it. His breath was curling in white puffs in front of him as he pushed on, straining for any sounds of John or Moran. Finally, he reached the roof, carefully checking for anyone before lifting himself up.

It was empty for just a moment before Moran burst through the hatch and scrambled to his feet. He sprinted toward the fire escape, then froze when he saw Sherlock’s silhouette along the edge.

“Bastard,” the man growled, his hands reaching for a poorly concealed knife. Just as Sherlock registered its cold glint, John tackled Moran to the ground, holding his wrist painfully backwards until he released his grip on the weapon. Lestrade leveled his gun to the man’s head, barking orders to stay still.

“Don’t,” John hissed as Moran continued to struggle, “it’s over now. They want you imprisoned, and we’ve got you.”

John held up the knife to Sherlock, and their eyes met for a second. They were wild, fierce and victorious, all consuming, and it sent a jolt of heat through Sherlock. He forced his eyes away and nodded at Lestrade who knelt down and cuffed the man’s wrists behind his back.

“Sebastian Moran,” Lestrade stated, “you are under arrest by order of the Republic of Nodol for several accounts of manslaughter as well as thievery and the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes.”

“There’s no treason in that,” Moran huffed as he rolled to glare at Sherlock, “even though it’s over, I’ve done my bit for securing Nodol its freedom from the monarchy. At least she stands on her own while your family dithers in the past.”

John wrenched the man up by his bound hands forcefully, his face twisted in disgust. With a nod to Lestrade he began maneuvering him downstairs to the waiting car across the street. Sherlock followed slowly, his head pounding with the worries he’d managed to keep down for the last few weeks. With Moran's words they were suddenly forced to the forefront of his mind.

His ultimate mission upon returning to Nodol was to capture Moriarty’s man. Mycroft had utilized his and John’s usefulness from Baker Street all this time, but now the bulk of the work was over. Nodol was rebuilding itself. Daily, John reported his pleasure at the steadying republic, the repairing economy and the bright hopefulness of the people. It was slow work, and they were nowhere near the safety of prosperity, but it was clear to Sherlock that soon his duty to the capitol and surrounding land was coming to an end. Soon there would be a telegram or phone call beckoning him back to Paris.

Sherlock watched as John manhandled Moran into the car and felt his chest restrict.

“Do you have him Greg? It’d put me more at ease if we were with you.”

Lestrade slid into the drivers seat and shook his head. “It’s not far. And no offence, mate, but you look wrecked.”

John laughed weakly and glanced nervously back at Moran. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. Go rest. Plenty of loose strings to take care of in the morning.”

Lestrade glanced beyond John to Sherlock. “Alright, Your Majesty?”

Sherlock tightened his coat around him and nodded. Lestrade shared a glance with John, but only said, “yes, well, goodnight,” before he rolled away from the curb.

John watched the car turn the corner before returning to Sherlock’s side and walking with him toward the main road. It was still a few hours before dawn, and Sherlock felt the similar restlessness and manic energy he always felt after a mission was accomplished, but this time it was weighted down by his depressing thoughts.

“A bit anticlimactic after all this time, wasn’t it?” John chirped beside him as they walked. It was clear he was extremely pleased with the evening’s events, not even thinking about what it might imply that they’d finally caught the man they’d been sent to Nodol to track down. Sherlock wished for not the first time that he was ordinary like John, slow to think and easily pleased, not born into royal lineage, but free to live as he chose. John lifted his face to smile at Sherlock and his heart ached with missed opportunities he hadn’t realized he would have to give up.

He looked toward the hazy streetlights of the main road and said, “I suppose I ought to phone my brother.”

John hummed in agreement beside him, his fingers clenching for a second before brushing Sherlock’s hand and swinging away again. Sherlock frowned, angry at his body for jolting at the touch and looking for a taxi.

“What happened, back there?” John asked as Sherlock continued north toward their flat. “You didn’t see Moran when he approached the door.”

Sherlock felt the embarrassment crawl up from his knotted stomach into his throat and he valiantly fought to keep his face straight. “Lost in thought, I suppose,” he said with a victoriously even voice.

“Really? That’s not like you.” John said with a worried expression on his face. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and studied his face. “You feeling okay?”

Sherlock wrenched away, his stomach fluttering unpleasantly and his cheeks hot.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he mumbled and reached out a hand to hail an oncoming cab.

“Where to?” The cabbie quipped as they clambered in.

“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock answered and settled as far away from John as he could manage.

The other man was happily humming as they drove across sleeping Nodol, his fingers tapping with leftover energy from the chase, seemingly unaffected by Sherlock’s odd behavior.

When they arrived home, he leapt out to open the door to their flat and Sherlock paid the cabbie as he made contingency plans. He had to phone Mycroft about what had happened, even though it was likely one of his agents had already made him aware of Moran’s apprehension. But he was also suddenly desperate to know what his future held. Was he meant to come back to Paris, play the aristocrat and help Mycroft in his political influences? Or would he be allowed to continue in Nodol, perhaps go to school, pursue criminals and live with John? The latter seemed less likely, and it made him cold with misery.

They crept quietly up the stairs so not to awake Mrs. Hudson. John gave a contented smile to the living room when the entered the flat, still humming as he removed his jacket and hung it up. He loved the flat, had molded himself into it easily and comfortably, and it made Sherlock feel oddly at peace to know his friend was pleased with their home together. He was terrified that it might be taken from him.

John watched Sherlock pull off his coat and scarf, his eyes turning concerned. He stepped closely and brushed a hand gently across Sherlock’s forehead.

“Sure you’re alright?” He asked softly, his lips turned down with concern. Sherlock closed his eyes and let himself lean into John’s touch. John’s fingers stroked up into Sherlock’s curls and tugged gently. It was easy now, to press the shape of his mouth to John’s, to know the angle that slotted their lips together perfectly. John’s breath shuttered as Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist and brought their bodies flush, and he pressed his lips harder to Sherlock’s.

Belatedly, Sherlock realized that John had managed to maneuver them against the hallway wall, his thigh nudging Sherlock’s knees apart and grabbing the lapels of his jacket. John pulled at the him while pinning Sherlock to the wall, pressing his thigh to the growing arousal thickening in Sherlock’s trousers. The younger man groaned against John’s lips, easily caught in dizzying lust whenever he’s reminded of their first kiss.

He doesn’t understand this. Within minutes he’s a panting mess, his confident hold on John from earlier disintegrating into helpless gropes. His normal control and disregard for his body's needs disappearing with just a heated look from his flatmate.

He groaned into John’s mouth as he remembered the man’s confident hold on his revolver earlier, his muscles flexing as he manhandled Moran down from the roof. John’s kisses were becoming harder, more sloppy, interspersed with soft grunts. Without warning he started to rub his own erection against Sherlock’s bent leg.

“Fuck,” he whispered and his mouth was at Sherlock’s throat suddenly, smearing wet kisses while huffing heavily with each thrust.

Something lurched in Sherlock’s stomach as he realized how uncontrolled John was being. Hope bubbled up and he gripped John’s face in his hands and began to jostle his leg in time with John’s rhythm. John groaned near his ear, biting back curses as his cock twitched against Sherlock’s thigh.

“Yes John,” Sherlock whispered as he bent down to kiss him again.

But John stopped moving, his fingers tightening for a second on Sherlock’s jacket, and then easing off. His nostrils were flared as his mouth pinched together and he rolled back onto his heels. Sherlock’s stomach clenched and he belatedly dropped his hands that had been caging in John’s face onto his shoulders.

The older man opened his eyes finally, looking up with an embarrassed expression.

“Sorry, Basil.” He grimaced. “Got a bit carried away. God, you were brilliant tonight. Knowing he’d be there and taking the fire escape.”

His eyes grew soft again and he smiled fully. “Can you believe we finally caught him? All this time and it’s over now.” Carefully he rose up on his toes and pushed a soft closed mouth kiss to Sherlock’s.

It turned into a few more kisses as Sherlock leaned into it, tongue swiping and pushing gently into John’s mouth as the other man panted. He felt his heart kick in his chest, John’s words reminding him about the inevitability of his leaving their home. God, to think he would never have this again. Lust mingled with sadness until his eyes started to burn, and when John tried to pull away again, he pushed his face into John’s neck, holding him close.

“John,” he croaked, angry at himself and miserable, “please.”

“Basil?” John stroked his hand down his back.

“Please,” Sherlock whispered. He lifted his face to John’s ear, gently kissing the skin beneath it. “Touch me.”

John’s breath caught and shuttered on exhale. He pulled his face away to look in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Sherlock lurched forward and pressed a desperate kiss to John’s bottom lip. “Yes, yes, John.”

The older man’s eyes were wide, trying to assess Sherlock’s strange behavior no doubt. Sherlock was terrified for a moment that he might say no, and grasped for a way to convince him. But John glanced up through his eyelashes finally and gave a short nod.

“Right.” He licked his lips. “Okay, erm.” He let out a breathy giggle and reached down to take Sherlock’s hands.

“Bedroom?”

Sherlock nodded vigorously, relief blooming through him. He let himself be led down the hallway into his bedroom and closed the door behind them. For a moment they stared at each other, Sherlock completely lost as to what he should do and John looking surprised and slightly giddy.

“Er, right.” John said and pulled off his jumper. Sherlock followed suit and took off his jacket then began unbuttoning his waistcoat. As he whipped off his tie, he glanced up and was frozen by a glance of John’s skin as he pulled off his shirt. He realized with a pang of irritation that all the time traveling and living together he’d never seen John shirtless and was suddenly determined to categorize all of it. Emboldened by his curiosity, he abandoned his efforts to remove his clothing and instead strode over to John and placed his palms on his firm chest.

John’s scar was faintly pink, smooth and puckered flesh. He ran his fingers along it reverently, learning the texture and shape. When he glanced up into his friend’s face, John was smiling sadly.

“We’ve gotten a little off topic,” he said.

Sherlock let his hands fall to John’s waist and leaned forward to kiss him. John cupped Sherlock’s face and sighed. His fingers drifted to the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt and he tugged at them until the fabric fluttered off of his pale shoulders onto the ground. With a quick look into Sherlock’s eyes, John ran his hands down his shoulders toward his pecs and brushed his fingernails across his nipples.

Sherlock twitched back, gasping a bit as the shock of arousal swept through him. Something about his reaction seemed to please John, because he repeated the act with fervor as he kissed and licked at Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock, to his horror, felt himself begin to tremble at the attention, and wanting to push things along, fluidly tackled John to the bed.

John let out a tremendous whoosh of air and after a disconcerted moment, burst into giggles.

“Jesus, you git! Give me some warning.”

Sherlock was too distracted by the appeal of John Watson wriggling beneath him to give much heed to his reprimand and immediately took the opportunity to kiss every inch of his chest. He felt desperate with the need to categorize everything about John. It was his only opportunity to know him like this, defenseless and needy. The sounds John made when his nipple was sucked was paramount; the slightly powdery scent of his skin was critical. John was so warm beneath him, and flushed a bit across his neck. His hair was sticking up on one of Sherlock’s pillows; how had he never realized that the color was both blonde and brown?

Sherlock straddled John with the intention of taking his time to categorize, but his intentions flew off track when John bucked up and caused delicious friction on both their erections. Instead he let out an appalling noise that sounded like he'd been punched in the gut, and collapsed onto John’s chest. This inspired John to roll them over and kiss down Sherlock’s body to the clasp of his trousers. With quick fingers he undid it and the zip, and eased the rest down and off of Sherlock’s legs.

John was taking controlled breathes through his nose as he glanced over Sherlock’s legs and pants, obscenely tented by his erection. After a moment he flicked his eyes up and looked at Sherlock. He couldn’t move under John’s observation, too overcome with foundless fear and overwhelming desire. John must have liked whatever he saw on Sherlock’s face, however, because he removed his trousers too, quickly and efficiently, along with his pants.

Sherlock’s stomach knotted at the sight of John’s cock, jutting out red. It was longer than his and fatter. Sherlock’s inexperience was never more apparent to him than the moment John confidently revealed himself and waited to see what Sherlock would do.

Determined to see things to the end, Sherlock met John’s eyes and nodded. “Lovely,” he affirmed and hooked a finger into his own pants to drag them off. John licked his lips obscenely when Sherlock was fully naked and without hesitancy, ran a hand up his thigh to cup Sherlock’s balls.

Sherlock snapped his head back at the touch and groaned softly. John let out a huff of satisfaction, and then dragged his fingers upward to grip Sherlock’s penis. The younger man arched up, whimpering at the contact. John began to fist him, and Sherlock thought he might burst into flames. A thick liquid heat coursed from his toes to his brow, and he fitfully moaned as John squeezed and stroked.

“John.” He bit his lower lip and lowered his eyes to watch John’s hand pass over the head of his cock. He lifted his face and saw that John was watching him heatedly. His hand stuttered for a moment, and then John crawled back up the bed and attacked Sherlock’s mouth.

He sucked at his lips, clawed at Sherlock’s hair and positively writhed in want. Sherlock didn’t know what to do but return as many kisses as he could, reveling in the delicious friction of their skin pulling at each other’s, the overwhelming smell of John’s musk filling the air around them. He sucked at a part of John’s shoulder and felt the man quake with pleasure.

“Basil,” John moaned breathily, “you are the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. God, you're brilliant.”

Sherlock’s heart spiked and he aligned their hips and all at once the pleasure was ten times higher as John began to rut his cock against Sherlock’s. It was fantastic; the friction and heat and sweat of their bodies stringing out wave after wave of pleasure. His balls were drawing up and his body was begging for release, but Sherlock's mind was screaming for him to slow down, to savor. It was his only chance, he had to draw it out, had to see everything.

But John was deep in a rhythm now, letting out choked moans at Sherlock’s collarbone with each thrust and Sherlock couldn’t stop him. When John’s movements became frantic, Sherlock tugged on the man’s short hair so he could see his face. It was imperative he see the moment; he needed to see. John’s eyes were screwed shut, his eyebrows shoved together as he concentrated, and Sherlock felt a wave of absolute want wrack though him. It was so devastatingly different from lust. His throat tightened as John’s hips began to stutter, and all at once John let out a shout and his cock twitched against Sherlock’s.

Warm ejaculate spilled across Sherlock’s stomach and John’s eyes shot open. The shock of his orgasm took Sherlock by surprise that close to John’s blue irises, and his head snap back without his permission as his penis spurted. The surge of pleasure rushed through his head and he let out a tremendous breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

John had fallen to his side and was reaching for something beneath the bed. Sherlock felt the fleeting relief fade into cold melancholy. He closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing.

Something rough snagged at his stomach and hair at his crotch. He opened one eye to see John’s hand using his pants to clean the mess. Sherlock leaned back again and threw an arm over his eyes, trying to send the fears away and memorize this moment. John’s gentle hands cleaning him after their intimacy. His silent and reassuring presence alongside him in bed.

“Tired?” John asked after a few quiet moments.

Sherlock nodded and sat up to pull down the covers. John went to turn off the light and dithered for a moment by the door. Sherlock settled down again beneath the sheets, his back to John.

“Mrs. Hudson isn’t up until seven usually.” Sherlock spoke quietly. “I’ll wake you up before she’s sure to come up with tea.”

_Stay,_ he wanted to say, _just for one night._

John strode over and slipped beneath the covers, leaving room between them at first, but then sliding down the bed to lay an arm across Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock curled his arm up to link his fingers with John’s and smiled into the darkness.

“I love you, Basil,” John breathed out, and pressed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock tensed, his heart starting its frantic beating all over again at hearing the only thing that could have made the night worse in memory. Not only would he have to surrender this perfect intimacy with John soon, but he would also be denied the sheer loyalty and admiration with which John had uttered those heartbreaking words.

Sherlock clenched his fingers tight against John’s, and stayed absolutely quiet.

 

\--

 

John woke up with a poke to his ribs. He lifted his head from the unfamiliar lumpy pillow and stared at Sherlock’s pale eyes looming above him. Soft, grey light filtered around Basil’s wild curls and John chuckled.

“Good morning,” he drawled happily, trying to pat down the messy tangle. Basil’s eyebrows drew together in confusion.

“Nearly seven,” he said, his eyes roaming John’s face before landing on his lips.

John hummed in agreement and scooted up to give a kiss, but Sherlock leaned backward. The man lowered his eyes and turned to get off the bed. He held up John’s clothes in a pile.

“I heard Mrs. Hudson moving downstairs,” he said not meeting John’s eyes, “I thought I’d be awake before now. I’m sorry.”

John took the clothes and smiled. “It’s fine. Guess I wore you out a bit.”

The flush that dawned on Basil’s face was worth the risky dodge he would have to make to his room. It was an exceptionally wonderful thing to be cheeky to Basil in the early morning. He leaned in and took his kiss when Basil was still a bit in shock, than stocked off to his room, completely starkers and absolutely in the best mood he could remember having been in a long time.

In his mirror upstairs he got a lovely view of his puffy, sleepy state and he grinned like a loon. He couldn’t believe last night had happened. John hummed as he splashed water on his face. Not only had they finally caught Moran, but Basil had asked John to… flashes of memories came flooding back to him, sending flames of hot desire across his skin. Basil gasping as he pushed him against the wall. Basil asking John to touch him. Basil’s long neck stretched back as John ground against him. Basil’s bottom lip between his teeth.

He couldn’t stop smiling as he dressed. After all this time of respecting Basil’s boundaries and desiring to get to know him as they lived and worked together, John had never imagined the overwhelming electricity that would burst between them as they lay entwined on Basil’s bed. His friend had been so sweetly inexperienced and simultaneously determined. There were moments that made John question how far they should go, but Basil had always pushed on, apparently realizing John’s hesitancy. And he’d wanted John in bed with him as they fell asleep, an endearing gesture that had made John’s heart heavy with absolute love.

He’d known it was going to frighten Basil to hear it, but John felt it was essential he share his harbored thoughts of love then and there. He hadn’t expected reciprocation, and received none. But he’d needed Basil to know, without a doubt, that he was fully his.

The door downstairs creaked open and Mrs. Hudson’s light “good morning, dear,” echoed upstairs. John combed his hair carefully as he heard their landlady and Sherlock lightly conversing. Something about the uncharacteristic warmth of the late autumn air, his pleasurably sore thighs, the light clinking of tea cups being placed on wood made his heart swell with giddiness and he found himself laughing at his reflection’s moony look. 

“John!” Came his flatmate’s (lover’s?) thunderous beckon, and John whipped around to find his jacket.

Mrs. Hudson was nibbling on a scone by the fireplace, and she smiled warmly at John as he scuttled into the room. John rather liked their landlady. He was glad Basil had been able to help her escape her terrible marriage and find her son. It was also a plus that she could bake the best pastries he'd ever eaten.

Basil was scowling at a telegram at the table, fully dressed, but still frizzy-headed. John resisted an urge to flatten it with his hand and grabbed a cup of tea.

“What’s that, then?” He asked.

Basil’s sharp eyes snapped up to his. “Mycroft’s given us another assignment.”

“Oh?” John said after another sip. “What’s it this time? Another corrupt officer?”

“Bit more complicated than that. Mysterious murders along the Thames.”

“How lovely for you, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly as she gathered her tea cup. “Something to keep you two busy.”

Basil’s lips lifted a bit at the corner as he watched her leave. “She is the strangest thing,” he commented absently.

“Basil! Be kind.”

“I am! I adore her. Best decision Mycroft’s made so far.”

“I don’t think His Majesty rented this flat for us because Mrs. Hudson’s peculiarities would suit you.”

“Why?” Basil’s eyebrows came together. “Isn’t that why he hired you?”

John paused. Basil was picking at his scone, pinching bits between his fingers until they crumbled back onto his plate.

“Well, I don’t know. I think he'd liked to declare me as his idea, but the truth of the matter is I’d be here whether if he liked it or not.”

Basil continued to crumble the scone, his face pinched in confusion. “Because,” he breathed out, “you… love me.”

John put down his tea and walked over to Sherlock’s chair at the table. He leaned down, lifting Basil’s face up with a finger. Sherlock’s eyes skittered around uncomfortably and John frowned.

“What is it, Basil? Shouldn’t I have said it? I wanted you to know the truth.”

The younger man laced his fingers together in his lap and finally peered up into John’s face.

“John, what if this is the last of it?” His eyes flicked down to the telegram.

“The last of the Emperor’s requests?”

“Yes.”

John’s frown deepened. “Well, there’s university. I thought you told me you’d like to go?”

Basil was so still, that it was frightening.

“But if you’d prefer to keep… investigating things, we could set up a detective business like you’d mentioned. As long as Mrs. Hudson doesn’t mind increased traffic.”

Basil tilted his head and looked out the window to the street below. John followed his gaze, suddenly very uncomfortable about what Basil wasn’t telling. Was he… finished here? Now that Moran was under custody, did he not want to remain in Baker Street? Or did he want John to go? Suddenly the quiet of the night before and hesitancy this morning made terrible sense to John.

“Basil,” he murmured, “do you want to go back to Paris?”

“No!” The younger man burst out, and he launched out his chair, striding over to the fireplace and thrusting the telegram into the fire. John watched him warily.

“Then, you want me to go?”

“Absolutely not!” Basil said sternly, snapping up to glare at John.

“Then what?” He finally cried out, thrusting a hand into the air. “What happens when our duty is done? What happens when Nodol doesn’t need us anymore? Tell me, Basil.”

He crossed the living room, cupping his hands around Basil’s face and beseeching him for answers with desperately roving eyes.

“Tell me what you’ll do, because I want to do it too. Tell me where you’ll go, because I want to go there.”

Basil was blinking rapidly, lip caught between his teeth.

“Even,” he said brokenly, “when I’m forced to play the aristocrat? When Mycroft orders me places that you’ll hate? We’ll both hate?”

“Anywhere and everywhere.”

Basil shuttered and closed his eyes, inhaling harshly.

“Why?”

“Because I chose you,” John said with as much gravity in his voice that he could muster. “I chose you, you madman. Not because you’re Grand Duke Sherlock Holmes, and not because of your brother, and not just because Nodol needs you, will always need you, but because this?” He reached for Basil’s hand and placed it right in the middle of his chest. “Is what I chose.”

“What a ridiculous thing to do,” Basil whispered, leaning down to touch his forehead to John’s.

“Yeah, I know,” John answered, “but that’s me. Lover of the ridiculous.”

“Protector of the royal pains.”

“Healer of the royal arse you mean.”

“That was one time.”

“And what a beautiful time it was.”

Basil huffed out a laugh and lifted his head to look properly in John’s eyes. He still looked a little wary, but unclouded affection had taken over.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Basil laughed.

John smiled. “Oh God, yes.” And he kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it then :)
> 
> Thank you to my readers through the WIP and all the kind comments. I love each and every one of you!


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